


Hey, You, Whatcha Gonna Do?

by marmaladechainsaw



Series: Love & Basketball [3]
Category: Basketball RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Daddy Kink, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Face Slapping, Humiliation, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7183724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmaladechainsaw/pseuds/marmaladechainsaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph and LeBron fight for dominance on the court--but when they're alone, it's not much of a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I hope everyone is having a good time watching the Finals. I know I am, although I have to admit as a Cavs fan I'm a little disappointed lol xD
> 
> I know it's been a million years since I've posted and some people have been looking forward to reading part three! So, here's chapter one *grins*
> 
> If you're finding this story first I recommend you go back and read my first two stories beforehand-Come On and Slam and its sequel Welcome to the Jam.
> 
> I apologize for the delay. I've been dealing with a lot of stress in my life and for weeks the words would just not come to me. And even when they did I'd end up changing everything a few days later anyways. I'm definitely somewhat of a perfectionist when it comes to writing this because I want it to be good for everyone!
> 
> I want to give a huge thanks to everyone who has commented, left kudos, or just read my stories! It really does mean a lot to me and when I was in the midst of my writer's block it really kept me motivated and wanting to write more. So THANK YOU again to everyone who's reading! I really appreciate it!
> 
> Lastly I want to say that I'd like to encourage everyone to keep notice of the warnings. I'll be updating them with every chapter that I post. I know everyone has different likes/dislikes so I definitely don't want to upset anyone by reading something that isn't their cup of tea! 
> 
> Oh, and if this is the first story of my series you're reading--I recommend you go back and read my first two, well, first! (=
> 
> And finally, as always, my disclaimer: This story is created entirely from my perverted imagination and is in no way true!

"Ow! Shit!"

Steph squirmed on the bench, grimacing in pain as the curved, steel instrument moved rapidly back and forth over the tender, thin flesh of his right knee, the muscles twinging in protest at the rough treatment.

"Sorry." Tyrell flashed him an apologetic grin, his broad, warm hand gripping firmly onto Steph's thigh to keep him in place. "I know it hurts. We're almost done."

Steph grinned back sheepishly, silently wincing as the sports therapist began scraping at his knee again a bit more gently. He was straddling a bench in the locker room at the Oracle, his right leg extended over Tyrell's legs. The sports therapist's shorn head was bent deeply, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked. Jaw tight, Steph tried very hard to ignore the strong, solid muscle under his leg, and the fact that he was practically sitting in the other man's lap. After all, gym shorts didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination.

It was only a few days after the last game of the Semi-Finals, and Steph was still riding high on the knowledge that they were going to the Finals once again. It had been a difficult post-season for Steph: at the very beginning his old ankle injury had flared up, and after sitting out to rest for a few games he'd returned to join his team against the first round match-up against the Houston Rockets--only to slip and fall halfway into the second quarter and hurt his knee.

Everyone had been horrified: his team, the fans, and Steph himself, who was convinced that he would be out for the rest of the post-season. Injuries were not to be taken lightly, and Steph had had the misfortune to sustain one right when his team needed him most. Luckily his teammates were as fierce as their team name suggested, and they'd managed to clean up quite nicely while Steph sat out and watched from the sidelines, quietly grieving, forcing himself (albeit reluctantly) to confront the fact that he might not play at all until next season.

The boys had played hard: the Houston Rockets hadn't given them too much trouble, but the next round against the Trailblazers had been a little more difficult. Luckily Steph had healed up enough to rejoin his team just in time for the face-off against Oklahoma. The series had started out shakily: the Thunder had gotten up to three wins over their one. Somehow, they'd managed to come back, and shocked everyone by winning three games in a row and securing their spot in the Finals.

Steph was feeling stronger with each passing day, thanks to the intensive treatment plan he'd been undergoing. After his fall Kerr had immediately ordered the Graston Technique, a kind of instrument-assisted soft tissue manipulation which he promised would work wonders for Steph's pain by breaking up scar tissue.

To Steph the Graston instruments looked like curved butterknives, some long and broad, others short and thin with a forked end. His first day on the job, Tyrell had explained to Steph that the Graston Technique was actually an adaptation of an ancient Chinese treatment known as 'Gua Sha'.

All Steph knew was that it fucking hurt.

"Hmm." Tyrell paused in his ministrations, big hand sliding almost imperceptibly a little further up Steph's thigh, the flesh bare where his shorts had inched up. Spine stiffening, Steph sucked in a quiet breath, trying to will his dick to stay down as Tyrell poked and prodded and stroked at his knee like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Hand still gripping Steph's thigh, his free hand moved to encircle Steph's calf, right under the knee joint; gently, he bent Steph's leg upwards, glancing up at him. "How's it feel?"

The muscles twinged feebly at the movement, but it was nothing like the seizing pain he'd experienced right after his fall. "Still hurts a little," Steph admitted, one arm draped in what he hoped was a casual way across the crotch of his shorts, the other hand gripping so tightly to the side of the bench that his fingers ached. "But it feels better. Not as, you know..stiff."

He cringed at his own choice of words, but Tyrell didn't seem to notice, simply giving a short nod and straightening Steph's leg out again. "We've made a lot of progress. I don't think it's going to hold you back from crushing it in the Finals." He flashed a grin, his teeth very white against his dark skin. As always Steph couldn't help noticing the dimple that dotted his smooth left cheek; he found it curiously sexy.

"Aren't you mad it won't be the Hawks this year?" Steph asked, a note of teasing in his voice. Tyrell had previously told him about being from Atlanta, and therefore a life-long Hawks fan.

The other man looked amused. "I'll always be rooting for the Hawks--but you're my second pick." He actually winked at Steph.

Steph gave a little laugh, heat shifting in his stomach, very cognizant of their close proximity and the fact that they were entirely alone in the locker room. The other guys had long since left after their brief practice. Klay had volunteered to stay behind and wait for him, but Steph had waved him off with the excuse that he was planning on going straight home afterwards to get some rest.

Mostly he just relished the thought of being alone with the hot sports therapist. Not that he would tell Klay that.

"We done?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Yeah. Your torture session is over for today." Still, Tyrell held to his thigh, seemingly reluctantly to let go, fingers stroking idly over the sensitive flesh in a wholly unneccessary way. Finally he released it, shooting Steph a sexy little smirk, his dark eyes lingering a little too long. It wasn't the first hint of interest he'd shown Steph since his brief tenure as the team's sports therapist--he sure hadn't asked Livingston to practically straddle him under the pretense of treating the other player's old leg injury--and each time it made a little thrill of excitement curl in Steph's stomach.

After all, Tyrell was hot, and it had been nothing but his own hand for months, not since--

Steph retracted his freed leg, blood pumping in his ears at his own thoughts and the tension that had suddenly cloaked the room. "It's cool. I gotta be at my best if we're gonna win this. And you're a lot more sympathetic than some of the therapists we've had." He smiled crookedly, rubbing idly at his sore knee as he rose to his feet.

Tyrell laughed, turning to begin packing up the kit that lay next to him on the locker room bench, the muscles in his broad back flexing appealingly under his tight white tee. "My clients at the gym might disagree with you. I think some of them feel like cussing me out when I'm pushing them during their workout."

Steph had a sudden vision of the normally-serene Tyrell in gym-mode, face a stern mask of concentration, barking out orders and squashing any and all protests with a few sharp words. The thought made his stomach pull tight.

"Well, whatever you do seems to work. So it's worth it. No pain, no gain, right? Some people just can't take the pain." Steph rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, shifting where he stood, uncertain of what to do next.

Tyrell finished packing up his kit and zipped it shut, rising alongside Steph, towering over him by several inches. He was around thirty-five or so, with a handsome face and equable demeanor. He'd shared that although he worked primarily as a sports therapist, he moonlighted as a trainer at his local gym on the side. It wasn't hard to believe, Steph thought, eyes flicking over the muscled arms that strained at the sleeves of his white t-shirt. He'd always had a weakness for arms.

"Absolutely," he agreed, eyes taking on that intense quality again, something like amusement playing around his mouth, as if Steph had just unwittingly told a joke. "But I bet you could take it--couldn't you?"

He was suddenly quite close, heat coming off him in waves. Steph licked at his lips, the tension buzzing through his skull once again, sure that his expression must be broadcasting his feelings as clear as a billboard. He had a feeling Tyrell was no longer talking about an intense workout at the gym.

Slowly, as if Steph might spook at any sudden movements, Tyrell raised a broad hand to Steph's face. It rested against his cheek, hotter than a brand; gently he thumbed over Steph's plump bottom lip. "Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly pretty?" Tyrell hummed, heavy-lidded eyes searching Steph's face.

Dry-mouthed, Steph said nothing, lust and excitement making his limbs feel jittery. Bolder than he felt he poked his tongue forward, pressing it flat against the pad of Tyrell's thumb, heat pooling in his stomach as he watched the other man's pupils widen.

Smirking a little, thumb slipping away, Tyrell angled his head slightly and began leaning in, his intentions clear--

_If I hear you been playing around with Varejao and who-knows-who-else again, I'll wash my hands of your slut ass_

Steph pulled back as if shocked, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. Tyrell paused mid-descent and arched a brow, looking at Steph inquisitively.

"Ah--sorry," Steph said lamely, avoiding the other man's eyes, his cheeks hot. "Um, I just remembered I told a friend I'd meet them for dinner..it's already 7:30."

The sports therapist frowned briefly, intelligent eyes flicking over Steph's face in study; then he smiled, shaking his head a little. "I understand. Wouldn't want to leave them hanging." He reached down and hoisted the heavy black kit of his supplies up off the bench and onto his back without so much as a twitch of effort. "I'd better get going too, actually. My dog gets upset if I'm not back in time to take her for her evening walk." He gave Steph a rueful grin. "I'll see you later, Steph."

Miserably, Steph watched him go, the heavy wooden door swinging loudly shut behind him, plunging the room into silence. Cursing, he made his way over to his locker and began pulling out his street clothes.

He hadn't hooked up with anyone since his last encounter with LeBron, the other man's solemn warning rising unbidden to his mind each time he so much as looked at another man. Part of him resented it deeply: what right did LeBron have to tell him that he couldn't sleep around if he wanted to? Especially since he very much doubted "The King" himself was abstaining.

He'd almost let Tyrell kiss him; probably would've let him do more, in his lust-addled state. Steph's stomach squirmed as he absently began changing his clothes, confliction warring within him. There was no doubt that Tyrell was hot, and he'd probably be a good fuck..but would it be worth it, if LeBron stopped giving him the time of day?

Just the thought made him feel sick.

It was around 7:45 that he emerged from the Oracle, headphones in place (Drake this time), phone clutched in hand, blowing up from Klay's prodding texts: _what's going on?_ then, a few minutes later: _home yet?_ and: _are you still fucking Tyrell or what_

Shaking his head in exasperation, Steph ignored the texts, not really in the mood to deal with his best friend's nosiness. Climbing into his car, he lowered all the windows--it was still mid-80's despite the lateness of the day--and started home.

The drive was a short one, and soon he was inside his neat, spacious home, cool and dark thanks to central A/C and the blinds drawn over the floor-to-ceiling windows. Steph didn't bother switching on the lights, heading straight upstairs to his bedroom, tossing his gym bag carelessly on the floor and toeing off his shoes. Then he flopped down onto his bed (it was neatly made--he'd forgotten that the cleaning lady came today) and pulled out his phone, the screen brighter than usual in the dim room. Evidently Klay had given up: there were no more texts from the other man.

Sighing, Steph tossed the phone onto the mattress beside him and flipped onto his back, hands behind his head, staring up at the swirling white ceiling. Inevitably his thoughts drifted back automatically to the upcoming Finals. Or, more accurately, to the team they'd be facing: none other than the Cleveland Cavaliers.

Steph had followed the Eastern conference playoffs with no small degree of anticipation. It was impossible not to: the news on the Cavalier's progress was everywhere, from the sports channels to social media, to Klay's ever-helpful updates ("Your boy just won another one!" he'd crowed while making obnoxious kissy faces, laughing uproariously and dodging the shoe Steph flung at him).

When the Cavs had come up against the Raptors in their final round Steph had feared the worst: the Raptors were tough, having obliterated the other teams in their earlier rounds, and each Cavalier loss had made his stomach churn. But in the end the Cavs had taken it, winning the last two games of the round and earning themselves the second spot in the much-anticipated Finals.

Which meant that in just a few short days he would see LeBron in the flesh once again. Anticipation made his head feel light, all thoughts of Tyrell fleeing to be replaced with the Cavalier.

It wasn't difficult to conjure up an image of the other man. It was something he admittedly did often enough in the privacy of his own mind, only when he was alone. He flipped through the images like a scrapbook: fierce LeBron on the court, his game face firmly in place; sober, stoic LeBron at the press junkets and interviews, patiently fielding the same questions he'd been asked a thousand times; rarest--and only ever witnessed by himself secondhand--playful, laughing LeBron, sharing a joke with his teammates.

But his favorite iteration sprang easily to the forefront of his mind, clear as crystal from all the time Steph had spent examining it: "King" LeBron. It was the version of LeBron that thrilled Steph to the core: sleek and dangerous as a panther, the raw, quiet power of him evident from the moment he stepped into a room. Something about it appealed to Steph on a primitive level, made him ache to get closer. Made him want to roll over and show his stomach.

Steph bit his lower lip, his dick already stirring in his sweats as he pictured LeBron from their last encounter: smoldering eyes, stroking himself, issuing commands as easy as breathing. Blocking the door so that Steph couldn't have left even if he'd wanted to, because there was no way he'd be able to get past LeBron, who had almost a half a foot on him and probably more than fifty pounds of pure muscle; who threw Steph around like he was a rag doll, positioning Steph just where he wanted him, and then kept him in place with just his own mass..

"Shit." Steph reached down and palmed himself through the fabric, his mind running wild with what might happen the next time they met.

It would start with LeBron making him get on his knees again. No--first, LeBron would insult him, tell him the Warriors had no chance this year, that the Cavs were going to dominate them, and that LeBron was going to give him a preview. He'd say he hoped Steph's knee was feeling better, because he was about to be kneeling for a while--

Fuck. Steph yanked his sweats and underwear down mid-thigh, shuddering as the cool air washed over his rapidly hardening dick. Too lazy to move to get any lube, Steph licked a stripe up his palm and grabbed himself, stroking slowly. He'd get down, and LeBron would tell him to open his mouth like a good bitch, and then he'd have a mouthful of cock again for the first time in months. As always it would be a struggle just to keep his mouth open wide enough, until it felt like the corners of his mouth might split and he was lightheaded from lack of oxygen.

Steph groaned, swiping a thumb across the damp head of his dick, his strokes taking on a more fervent pace. Maybe LeBron would tell him to get it nice and wet, because that was all the lube he was getting. He would do his best, until his eyes were all teary and lockjaw nearly set in, LeBron watching him with a sense of utter dispassion, as if entirely unaffected by the situation. When he couldn't go another second he'd pull off, and LeBron would berate him, maybe smack him--not much force behind it, but hard enough to sting--and yank him up by his arm, grip hard enough to leave bruises. Then he'd shove Steph up against the nearest wall--yank his pants down just enough--

Steph tugged hard on his dick, face flushed, his entire body hot. It had been a few days since he'd jerked off, and he was already close, the images bringing him right to the edge. Without thinking he shoved two of his fingers in his mouth, sucking sloppily on them until they were dripping with saliva. Bracing his feet on the covers, his knees bent and spread, he found his hole easily and shoved his fingers inside a little too roughly, the muscle resisting him, unused to the intrusion after months of celibacy.

LeBron would grip onto his hip with one hand and the back of his neck with the other, keeping him pinned in place with easy, brute strength. It would fucking hurt like it always did when LeBron started pushing slowly inside, the slow burn more intense than a quick shove, stretching him out and lighting his every nerve on fire until Steph felt like he could crawl out of his own skin. It would be too much--that brief panic that Steph could not accomodate him rising up in the back of his throat-- before his body gave way, letting LeBron in completely, as deep as he could possibly go.

Steph worked his fingers in and out of his hole, trying to imagine it was LeBron's dick inside of him instead of the too-thin digits. He would set a jackhammer pace, until Steph's hips wracked painfully against the wall, the backs of his thighs sore and bruised just from the powerful pressure of LeBron's body against his as he speared Steph over and over. Until Steph couldn't make any more than the faintest noises from lack of breath, couldn't worm a hand in to even touch himself, could do nothing but reach back and sink his fingers into LeBron's flank, desperate to hold on to something as he was nearly split in two--

With a gasp Steph lost it, spilling all over his stomach, his hole contracting around his fingers and toes curling into the bedspread from the force of it. For a long moment he simply lay there, chest heaving faintly, heart pumping wildly, bathing in the afterglow of his self-induced orgasm, his mind blissfully blank.

The sound of his phone buzzing twice in rapid succession against the bedspread brought him back down; blindly, Steph groped for his phone, found it on his second grab. He expected more texts from Klay, bitching him out for not answering earlier, but when he looked at the screen it informed him there were two texts from an unknown number.

Steph stared, hardly blinking, his breath catching as he read the messages. They were short and simple, straight to the point.

_in town tomorrow_

and then, right underneath it--

_you been good for me?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> The BIG GAME is tonight! I'm so excited to see who's going to win this year. Obviously as an admittedly biased Cavs fan I'm hoping it's LeBron & Crew xD But either way I've been having a blast watching--and also having a blast writing this fic! 
> 
> Originally I had wanted to finish it before the Finals even started but now I'm kind of glad that I didn't because I'm getting so much inspiration from the games. So if you've been watching, a lot of the dynamics that have taken place will definitely find their way into this story! ( ;
> 
> A quick note: I try to respond to every person who leaves me a comment because I really do love getting them and I so appreciate all the love! But if it takes me a few days to respond, I apologize--I sometimes get caught up in everything so I don't respond right away. But I'm so grateful for every single comment, kudo, or reader in general!
> 
> Also just a little reminder to keep checking the tags as I update! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! :D

Steph sat behind the wheel in the parking lot, sipped idly on his Mountain Dew, and told himself he wasn't stalling.

The sun was setting, dipped halfway down beyond the horizon, and Steph had to pull his visor down to shield his eyes from its bright descent. It was too late for caffeine--his legs were already jittery enough--but Steph was wide awake, sleep the furthest thing from his mind.

For the thousandth time since he'd pulled in some fifteen minutes ago, Steph glanced down at his phone and read the final text he'd received last night before bed. It contained only three short lines: the address for a Hilton, the very place he was now camped outside of; the second line was a time, 9pm, which was quickly approaching, and might even arrive before the sun completely disappeared from the sky.

The third line read simply: _don't be late_

It wasn't surprising that LeBron had managed to get his number. They had never exchanged numbers personally; their..thing, whatever it was, hadn't lent itself to that sort of familiarity, or any other kind of contact outside their infrequent encounters. It was something Steph hadn't even considered asking. But apparently LeBron was not above obtaining his number--probably through one of their mutual acquaintances--and using it to set up another booty call.

He squirmed in his seat, thinking about LeBron's first text last night. _you been good for me?_ The easy reference to their two-time fling made it clear that LeBron hadn't forgotten the warning he'd issued to Steph the last time they'd met. Despite his recent orgasm it had made his whole body warm, even though his mind was telling him he was an idiot. He was the damned MVP, and he was letting LeBron control him from thousands of miles away, just on the off chance that he might get a dick thrown his way every couple of months. 

Steph had very nearly tapped out a scathing reply, but it wasn't until after he'd pressed 'send' that he realized his response hadn't exactly come out like he'd meant it to.

_you know i have_

And now here he was, only 24 hours later, skulking in the nearly-empty parking lot just because LeBron felt like getting off. Steph scowled, wishing for his mouth guard to chew on; he fiddled with his snapback instead. He wasn't sure if he was more angry at LeBron for so easily controlling him, or at himself for being so easily controlled, coming when called like a damned dog. For a moment he debated starting his car up and heading back home, maybe texting to see if any of his old fuck buddies were free--but his hand remained stubbornly still on his lap, clenching tightly to his phone. 

It was then that he remembered the time, and a quick glance at the screen told him it was already 9:05. Cursing, he popped out of his car and slammed the door shut, jogging towards the hotel entrance.

By 9:09 he stood in front of the right door, situated on the top floor of the hotel, and before he could rethink it he raised his fist and knocked twice. 

There was no sound from the other side for several long moments--during which time Steph briefly considered turning tail and bolting--until finally he became aware of footsteps approaching. Then came the sound of locks being opened, a deadbolt being undone, and a second later he was face-to-face with LeBron once again. 

Or, rather, face-to-chest with LeBron. Evidently the other man had just gotten out of the shower: he was dressed only in a loose pair of shorts and a towel slung over one shoulder, his chest otherwise bare except for a few scattered water droplets still clinging stubbornly to the dark skin. Steph tore his eyes away from the muscled, tattooed arms and forced them up to meet LeBron's. 

"Uh, hi," he said, and immediately cringed, because really?

"Hey," LeBron answered easily. His face was inscrutable, not giving Steph the faintest idea what he could be thinking. Opening the door wider, he motioned with a quick jerk of his head. "Come in."

The room was obviously the nicest the hotel had to offer. Luxurious and spacious, it was decked out in a sparse, modern style in complementing shades of silver and gray. The glass doors to the balcony on the far side had been opened, the curtains drawn back to display a beautiful view of the city, already illuminated by a thousand lights. A faint breeze rustled the curtains, the cool night air much more tolerable than the oppressive heat of the day. 

Having casually tossed his towel over a nearby chair, LeBron was now busy at the mini bar, fixing up a glass. He glanced up at Steph, pausing in his work. "You wanna drink?"

"Ah--sure," Steph agreed, caught off guard by the offer. Truthfully he shouldn't be drinking so close to the first game of the Finals--Kerr had "suggested" that they all abstain to keep their minds and bodies totally clear in the face of such a high stakes game, something Klay had whined about for hours--but if LeBron wanted to pretend like this was just two pals meeting up for a drink and a chat, then Steph would follow his lead and play along. Besides: he could really use a drink to help him chill the fuck out. 

He inched closer to the counter, and a moment later LeBron was finished, sliding one of the tumblers across to him, the ice cubes clinking together inside. Grabbing his own drink, he headed around the partition to the living area, dropping down into one of the leather chairs situated in front of the huge mounted TV near a long, low coffee table.

Steph cautiously followed, taking the chair on the opposite end of the table, his limbs stiff with nerves. He brought the drink up to his nose and sniffed--straight whiskey, from the smell of it--and took a gulp, more than he'd meant to. Instantly he began gagging, the sharp liquor burning his throat and turning it desert-dry. He set the glass on the table, spilling it a little in his haste, his eyes tearing as he pounded on his chest with a fist and coughed some more. 

LeBron watched him with barely concealed amusement, slouched comfortably in his chair like a great cat. "You'd better not tell your mom I let you have any alcohol," he said, when Steph had finally finished hacking up his lungs. 

Steph scowled across the table at him, wiping the stray tears from his eyes, his cheeks heating faintly. "Funny." He'd heard just about every crack in the book about his baby face, but somehow it really irked him to hear it coming from LeBron.

"The Baby-Faced Killer," LeBron mused into his glass after a moment, taking a long, easy sip. "You've played a good season."

The compliment caught him off guard, his entire body warming at the unexpected praise. "..thanks." He quickly added, "But the season isn't over yet. Not until we take the championship again."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself," LeBron said loftily, mellowed by the liquor. He sounded amused. 

Something about the dismissive tone rankled Steph to the core, and he found himself genuinely irritated. It recalled to mind the interview LeBron had given a few weeks ago, when he'd thrown shade by subtly questioning the decision to name Steph season MVP. Klay had teased him about his tetchy mood for days after. 

"Of course I'm sure," he said sharply, spine rigid with defensiveness. One by one he ticked off on his fingers: "Most wins in a regular season; surpassed Miami for most consecutive wins; Kerr named Coach of the year; me the first unanimous winner for MVP in NBA history.." he trailed off, shaking his head. "I could go on and on. We're the best team in the league, and if there's still any doubt we'll crush it in a few more games when we win the championship for the second year in a row."

Steph was practically frothing at the mouth, determined to make LeBron admit how impressive their team was--how impressive **he** was. 

LeBron didn't look particularly impressed. "Breaking records is great," he agreed. "But you lack the one quality that makes a truly great team."

Steph huffed out a breath, raising a brow imploringly. "And that is?" 

LeBron gave him a measured look over the rim of his glass. "Humility."

Gobsmacked was not a strong enough word to describe his reaction. "Say what??"

"You guys think you already have it in the bag. But every game is a challenge. You can always do better." LeBron shook his head a little, almost as if he was disappointed. "Until you learn that, your team will never be the best."

Steph was speechless. In under a few minutes LeBron had completely and effortlessly cut him down, making it clear that despite all of their brutally won games and broken records, he still did not consider Steph's team worthy of total respect. Still didn't see Steph as anything other than a pesky little rookie. 

"Kind of funny hearing that from you, when your team had such a roller coaster season. You made it to the Finals..so what? That ain't anything to do with humility and everything to do with the East being a weak-ass joke. Cavs wouldn't have even made 5th place in the West." 

It was a cheap shot, meant to disguise his hurt; meant to make LeBron hurt. But LeBron only smirked, idly swirling his glass, seemingly unbothered by the petty insult. "That's Stephen Curry--so used to everybody kissing his ass as the NBA's latest Golden Boy that he can't stand it when somebody calls him out." 

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Steph snarled, before he could stop himself. 

Instantly he regretted it, eyebrows climbing his forehead in distress as he watched Lebron's face turn to stone. "Look, man, I didn't mean--"

LeBron drained the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on the table with a small clink, fixing his stare back on Steph, all traces of his earlier amusement gone. "Come here."

He'd expected it, of course, but the suddenness of it threw Steph off anyways. "LeBron-" he began, trying once again to backtrack, but the darkened expression made him fall silent. Slowly he stood and made his grudging way over to the other man, feeling very much like a lamb to the slaughter. 

It was counter-intuitive, but Steph felt utterly awkward being fully clothed in the face of LeBron's half-undressed state. Maybe it was the way the other man's muscles were so casually on display, utterly impressive without clothes obscuring them; maybe it was the easy confidence in his akimbo limbs, his splayed legs. Steph was suddenly aware of how his jeans seemed to accentuate his slim hips, despite the fact that he wore them loose; the way his t-shirt showed off his lean, unmarked arms. In that moment he regretted wearing his hat backwards on his head: combined with his youthful face, he knew it gave him a distinctly boyish appearance. It all made him conscious, once again, of the natural power imbalance between them.

He was already getting hard.

"You're a mouthy little bitch tonight, aren't you?" LeBron observed, as casually as someone commenting on the weather. 

This time, Steph kept his mouth shut so tightly his jaw ached, eyes trained on the floor, the scene strangely reminiscent of a sullen teenager being chastised by the principal.

"You've still got a lot of growing up to do," LeBron went on, leaning back further against the chair, eyes lazily half-lidded in the ambient light. "You said you been good for me, but then come in here acting like this. So I'm gonna need some proof that you ain't been fucking around. Show me your hole."

All the blood in his body seemed to rush straight to his dick, leaving his head spinning faintly. In the span of only ten minutes LeBron had shifted from casually affable to The King--the one from Steph's dirtiest fantasies--and Steph felt himself responding automatically with a potent combination of nerves and excitement, his body a well-trained beast in the other man's presence. Uncertainly, he reached for the hem of his shirt, but LeBron stopped him. 

"Did I say take off your shirt? Turn the fuck around."

The words had no real bite, but Steph felt his face flush anyways, moving quickly to do as he was told. Cautiously he began undoing his fly, and when LeBron didn't stop him he shimmied his jeans and underwear off his hips, down to mid-thigh, his dick already straining up towards the ceiling.

He hesitated just long enough to receive a slap on the side of his bare thigh, sharp enough to sting. 

"Little faster."

Hastily, Steph hinged forward, widening his legs as much as his pants would allow, reaching back with trembling fingers to spread himself apart. Even though LeBron had seen this part of him before, it was still embarrassing bending over like a fucking stripper, putting himself on display. Debasing himself according to LeBron's whim. 

"So you can follow orders," LeBron mused from behind him, oblivious to his thoughts. "Except for showing up on time, apparently."

Steph cringed, which was kind of difficult in his bent-over state. He hadn't thought LeBron had noticed that he'd been ten minutes late.

"But you're not all fucked-out, at least. Turn back around."

Gratefully Steph straightened and turned to face LeBron, his dick now on display, brushing up against the fabric of his t-shirt in a bid for attention. To his surprise LeBron already had his own dick out and was stroking it languidly, looking very much at ease. 

"You know what you're here for," LeBron said, raising both brows at Steph expectantly. 

Steph knew he should fight it--he shouldn't be so fucking easy--but he moved in anyways and knelt on the plush carpet between the other man's spread legs, belly flush up against the bottom of the chair, his jeans pulling tight across his thighs. 

"I'm gonna teach you a lesson in humility right now," LeBron told him, settling his arms over either side of the chair. "Get to work."

It was surreal, having a dick in his mouth for the first time in months. Steph wrapped his hand around the base, the flesh firm and unyielding to the touch, and sucked the head into his mouth with a faint 'pop'. He flicked his tongue teasingly over the slit, laving at the crown, before sucking it down, only managing to get halfway before it became too much and he was forced to back off. He did it again and again, head bobbing from the effort, mouth aching from the strain of keeping his teeth out of the way.

A sudden grip in his hair interrupted his motion. "It been so long you forget how to suck a dick? Do it right."

LeBron pushed on the back of his head, forcing him down further, and Steph choked, entire body rigid, tears springing to his eyes as the head began tickling at the back of his throat. His body reacted with natural panic, fighting against the hold, throat fluttering feebly as his airway was slowly obstructed. 

"We can do this all night," LeBron rumbled, and it sounded like a promise. "Don't fight it."

For what seemed like hours LeBron held him there, until at last all the tension drained from Steph's body, and he let out a long, shaky exhale, slumping bonelessly forward into the other man's lap. A strange kind of peace settled over him; his throat had gone slack, no longer protesting the intrusion, and dizzily Steph thought that he really could stay like that all night, mouth stretched impossibly wide, all of LeBron's attention focused entirely on him.

"Good." All at once the grip left his hair, and a thumb brushed feather-light over his cheekbone in the briefest of touches before LeBron settled his arms back on the armrests: a spectator once more. 

Slowly Steph backed off, nearly retching as the head bumped against his already-sore throat, the muscles contracting on a failed swallow. Hyper aware of the dark gaze watching him, he immediately sucked LeBron back down to the hilt and gagged once again, squeezing his eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears. 

LeBron tapped sharply on his hollowed cheekbone. "Look at me. I wanna see those pretty eyes when you're choking on my dick."

Despite himself Steph felt his stomach give a flip. He forced his eyes back open, tears breaking free and trailing down his cheeks as he began fucking his own throat in short, shallow thrusts. Sweat beaded at his forehead; he felt like his body was on fire, and a strange sort of buzzing had taken up residence inside his skull. His eyelids fluttered, fighting to close.

"Eyes. Not gonna fucking tell you again."

Steph's eyes snapped back open at the harsh reminder, his jaw muscles twinging with strain. Fatigue had overtaken him, and soon it turned sloppy, LeBron's dick dripping with spit, his own chin and hand soaked with it. For long moments he continued, gaze locked onto LeBron's, until his vision went blurry, everything fading away to white noise, and he felt as though he had floated right out of his body, up among the clouds. 

"Enough."

Steph tentatively sank back on his heels, wiping at his damp chin with the back of his hand as he slowly came back down to earth. He watched as LeBron shucked his shorts and kicked them to the side, rising shakily to his feet when LeBron motioned him to get up and peeling off his own clothes in what felt like slow motion. Then he stood completely naked in front of the other man, mouth swollen and face tear-stained, his dick still hard and dripping. 

LeBron reached out and grabbed him right under the ass, yanking him forwards, and Steph went easily, straddling LeBron's lap, his hands braced on the broad chest. LeBron wound a heavy arm tightly around his trim waist, his free hand rising up to probe at Steph's mouth. "Get 'em wet."

Steph sucked the first two fingers in, working at them fervently, his jaw still aching. After a few moments LeBron extracted them, his hand going automatically down, down, until his fingers ghosted over Steph's hole. The first one slid in easily, right up to the first knuckle; the second one met a bit more resistance, his hole ultra-tight from months of celibacy. 

Steph had done this to himself many times, but LeBron's fingers were much thicker, and he wasn't limited by the angle like Steph was. He prodded teasingly at Steph's hole, expertly crooking his fingers at the end, and in only a half minute he'd found the right spot: Steph gasped and pitched forward, pleasure zapping through him as if he'd just touched an electrified wire.

"Easy," LeBron murmured against his jaw, stubble scraping Steph's neck as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin. His thick fingers scissored Steph open, dick digging into Steph's flat stomach, Steph's own dick trapped between them. Then the fingers were gone, and a hand came down on his ass in a harsh slap.

"You ready, bitch?" LeBron asked, fingers digging into Steph's hip.

Steph hesitated, biting at his lower lip. "What about some--some oil or something-"

"You're the season MVP, ain't you? You can take it." The hand on his hip disappeared, the arm unwound from his waist, and LeBron relaxed back a little further in the chair, giving him a pointed look. 

Steph flushed, pushing himself back up with shaky arms. Hesitantly he grabbed hold of LeBron's still-wet dick and lifted his hips high, positioning the head at his hole. Then, settling his hands on either armrest for leverage, he slowly pushed back. 

The burn was unbearable, worse than he remembered, spearing him right down the center. With jaw clenched he shifted his hips and sank down a little further, biting back a gasp as the head slipped past the tight ring of muscle.

"Keep going," LeBron encouraged him. His face was still impassive, but his eyes were dark, gaze heavy with desire, and it made something in Steph thrill. Bracing himself, he pushed down again, brow knitting heavily as the pain overwhelmed him, blotting out all other sensations. 

He sank down inch by inch, until at last he was fully seated, LeBron's balls pressed snug against his ass. For a long moment he simply sat there, forcing himself to breathe evenly, his body faintly quivering as it struggled to adjust. When at last the pain had faded to a dull ache, Steph lifted up part way and shoved himself back down.

He did it over and over, wobbling back and forth on LeBron's dick, unable to work up a satisfying rhythm. His leg muscles burned from the effort, his body quickly growing heavy, his neglected cock falling to half-mast. Sweaty and exhausted, he finally sank back down to the hilt, the pain long since gone, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Reluctantly, he met LeBron's eyes.

The other man looked quite smug. "Tired already?" he questioned, bringing his hand down on Steph's ass, making the firm flesh jump. Winding his arm back around Steph's waist, LeBron crushed him against his broad chest and spoke directly in his ear. "You gotta tell me what you want."

Steph nearly groaned. It was the closest they'd been in months, and it was driving him crazy--LeBron's heat, his scent, his easy strength. He dug his fingers into the sides of the muscled torso, melting into the other man's hold, rubbing his face against the damp shoulder. 

"Fuck me," he ground out, the words thick on his tongue. 

LeBron smacked Steph's ass again in the same exact spot, harder this time, the sound reverberating throughout the room. Steph gasped, his cock jolting with renewed life. "I didn't get that."

"Please..LeBron..I need you to fuck me." He was dizzy with desire, his body quivering, tight as a bow.

LeBron grinned at him, sharp as a knife. "Now you're starting to sound humble." He grabbed onto Steph's hips and lifted him easily, almost entirely off his dick, before slamming him back down. 

Steph nearly screamed, scrabbling for a hold as LeBron fucked into him again and again, lifting Steph up and down on his dick without the slightest bit of effort. His sides ached from the bruising grip, in stark contrast to the pleasure that sparked through him as LeBron battered relentlessly against his prostate. It was too much, and it had been too long: with just a few tugs on his dick Steph was cumming with a gasp all over LeBron's stomach, his eyes nearly rolling back. 

LeBron grunted, his hands gripping impossibly tighter to Steph's waist, until Steph was sure his internal organs would bruise. He held Steph stationary in mid-air and began bucking his hips up at a frantic pace, fucking into him, his abs and biceps flexing mightily from the effort. Steph could only take it, his cock bouncing from each impact, his body heavy from orgasm. LeBron's speed increased, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his brow knitting deeply; with a guttural groan he thrusted upwards a final time, yanking Steph down to meet it, and Steph moaned as his ass was flooded with warm liquid.

He collapsed forward, burying his face against LeBron's neck, thrilling quietly when the other man did not protest. For several minutes they sat there, still interlocked, chests rising and falling rapidly as the euphoria washed over them. Steph was only aware of his own ragged breathing, and the way LeBron was stroking a big hand up and down his spine with something not unlike tenderness. Right then he would not have moved for anything in the world. 

A sudden tap on his side roused him. "Hop up."

With a quiet groan Steph reluctantly sat up, slowly rising his hips up until LeBron's dick slipped free. Cum gushed from his ass, trailing down the backs and insides of his thighs. His hole felt ultra-sensitive, and he could barely breathe around the soreness of his sides, where he could still feel LeBron's hands gripping him.

LeBron grabbed hold of his dick and gave it a little shake, arching a brow at Steph. "Clean me off," he said, and Steph felt his stomach drop straight through the floorboards. 

"Nah, man.." he trailed off, shaking his head, faltering as he watched LeBron's eyes narrow dangerously.

"That wasn't a request. Get on your fucking knees."

Steph hesitated, heart rate increasing once more. It was a blatant display of dominance on LeBron's part, and he nearly refused; but instead, predictably, he sank down to his knees again, his mouth falling back open. 

It was gross, and humiliating: Steph's cheeks burned as he sucked LeBron's dick clean, squeezing his eyes shut as he worked, and this time LeBron let him. 

"What would your fans say if they saw you right now? On your knees in front of me, tasting your own ass on my dick?" LeBron taunted, the harsh words reaching him even though his clenched eyelids. "Think about this the next time you're feeling like you're hot shit."

Even if he'd been able to speak, Steph had nothing to say. The "lesson" had been driven home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> So here's chapter 3! Admittedly it's quite short, and spoiler alert--there's no sex D:--but I had to advance things a little lol. And at least there's some quality bro time between Steph + Klay :D
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

"You're doing it again."

Instantly Steph broke out of his trance and hurriedly resumed his bicep curls. "I don't know what you're talking about, bro," he said dismissively, avoiding Klay's scrutinizing look in favor of watching himself in the nearby mirror.

They were at the little gym not far from Steph's house, getting in a light workout the day before the first game of the Finals. The gym at the Oracle was incredibly nice, but sometimes he and Klay liked to switch it up. Right then Steph was seated on a bench near the back of the gym where the weights were kept, hunched forward with a 25lb dumbbell in hand. Luckily the place was nearly deserted, probably due to the early hour; although it was rare to be accosted by fans there, it DID happen, and he was definitely not in the mood.

"Oh yeah? 'Cause you stopped lifting, like, five minutes ago and have kinda just been staring off into space ever since," Klay said flatly, standing nearby with his own weights. "It's kind of creepy, honestly."

Steph made a face at the other player, but he couldn't deny it. He WAS distracted, his mind far from his workout.

His sides were bruised and sore, and just sitting down was uncomfortable, but it was what LeBron had said to him the night before that was haunting him. 

_until you learn that, your team will never be the best_

_that's stephen curry...can't stand when somebody calls him out_

The words grated on him, echoing over and over in his head. His first instinct was to tell himself that LeBron was just trying to psyche him out before the Finals started--but he found himself unable to dismiss the criticism so easily. His feelings for LeBron went beyond just lust and admiration: as much as he hated to admit it, he craved the other man's respect, too. Anytime LeBron was asked about him by the media and responded positively (no doubt to the media's dismay; as part of the entertainment industry, the NBA thrived on drama), it gave Steph a rush of pleasure. Even if it was just LeBron taking the high road by refusing to play up their rivalry for ratings, the compliments still warmed him. 

On the flip side, criticism from LeBron was like a punch to the gut. Steph was used to being criticized--it wasn't ever exactly EASY for him to take, but he knew it came with the territory--yet it was somehow different coming from LeBron. It was almost like the shame he'd experienced as a child, whenever he'd disappointed his dad. It always made him feel desperate to prove himself as being 'worth it'--worth the attention, the affection, the love. 

"You know.." Klay went on, ignorant to Steph's agitated thoughts, "..this is kinda like that weird funk you were in not long ago." A sudden horrified look of realization passed over his face. "Shit..did you fuck Varejao again??"

"What? No!" Having finished his reps, Steph stood up and deposited the dumbbell back onto the weight rack with a heavy clang. Despite the emptiness of the room he still found himself speaking at a lower pitch than usual. "I told you that was a one-time thing."

"Well, good. Because we definitely don't need any drama to distract us right now." Klay deposited his own weight back onto the rack, pumping an excited fist into the air. "Finals for the second year in a row, baby! Let's shut those bitches down in five games this time!" He flashed Steph a shit-eating grin.

Steph grinned back halfheartedly, not feeling quite as optimistic. Although he had no doubt they would beat the Cavs eventually, he also knew that it wasn't going to be easy. The Cleveland team had improved since last year, completely sweeping their first two rounds of the Playoffs and only losing twice in the third. They were "hungry for it", as Kerr had put it, which meant that Steph and his team had a lot of work ahead of them.

"Alright, man." Klay grabbed him suddenly by the biceps and yanked him forward, leaning down to look him right in the eye. "Tell me what's going on. You've barely said two fucking words since we got here!"

Steph huffed, shoulders slumping as he broke the eye contact. As always, Klay's earnestness compelled him to honesty. "Okay, okay. I..uh..met up with LeBron last night."

Understanding dawned on the other man's face. "Ohhh. You guys are still doing that weird little hate-sex thing."

"Goddammit Klay." Steph shoved Klay's arm, breaking his friend's hold. "This is why I don't wanna tell you shit."

"You gotta admit it's weird, man. I mean, have you ever thought he might have, like, ulterior motives?" Klay followed behind Steph as he returned to the weight rack, grabbing the 50lb dumbbell with a slight grunt. "You know, like maybe blackmailing you--"

Steph gave his best friend an exasperated look. "By sticking his dick in my--?"

"OR maybe he's trying to hurt you before the Finals or something," Klay cut him off, voice rising to drown Steph out. "I mean, haven't you wondered why LeBron Goddamn James is all of a sudden fucking you on the regular?"

"Shut the fuck up Klay!" Steph hissed as a young woman in spandex appeared nearby, claiming the last treadmill in the row.

"I'm just saying, bro," Klay said, dropping his voice to just above a murmur. "I don't want to see you get, you know, humiliated or something."

 _Too late for that,_ Steph thought with dark humor. _Although I guess you heard it, instead._ The memory still made his stomach pull tight. He definitely never planned on telling Klay that he'd been an inadvertent "witness" to LeBron fucking him.

Aloud he said, "I'll be fine, Klay. I can handle myself." He breathed out a little sigh, switching the weight to the other hand. "It's just something he said to me that's kinda got me distracted."

Steph hesitated, curling slowly, staring at the weight rack with a faraway look in his eyes. "He said we don't have what it takes to be the best. That I'm..we're..lacking something." He shook his head a little, biting at his lip. "At first I thought he was just fucking with me..but I can't stop thinking about it. I mean, you can say what you want about him, but he's been around for a while, you know? He knows the game."

He frowned when no response came, finally glancing up to see Klay staring at the young woman on the treadmill, his mouth slightly agape. Pretty face twisted in concentration, her bare stomach muscles flexed as she ran, her long ponytail streaming out behind her. 

"You haven't heard a fucking word I said, have you?" Steph said flatly, pausing in his curls.

"Sure I have, bro." Klay broke his stare and turned back to the rack, selecting a 75lb weight from the middle shelf. Turning slightly to the side, he began curling, arm muscles straining, keeping his eyes down as if intensely focused on his task. "Quick--is she looking at me?"

Annoyed, Steph glanced over, but the woman was fiddling with the treadmill console, not paying them any attention. "Sure is, bro," he lied.

Klay grinned like a shark. "For real?"

"Yeah. She's rolling her eyes." Slamming his weight back onto the rack, Steph rolled his own eyes and started for the door, digging his phone out of his shorts pocket as he went.

"Shit--c'mon, Steph! Wait up!" Another loud clang, and then Klay was jogging to meet him, flashing a grin at the young woman as he passed her. This time she really did roll her eyes.

"Sorry, man," his teammate said, falling into step beside him. He sighed, suddenly serious. "Look. Forget whatever he said to you. Yeah, he's a great ball player and all, but he don't know everything. Don't let him psyche you out! You forget all the incredible fucking records we broke this season??"

"He said breaking records ain't everything," Steph mumbled, shoving the gym door open and emerging into the bright California sun.

Klay got to his car first, hopping into the driver's side and immediately rolling down the window, while Steph slid into the passenger's seat, reaching for his seat belt. "Well, sure. But it ain't nothing, either." He adjusted his mirror, shooting Steph a grin. "Don't worry. Once you got that trophy in your arms again, he won't be saying shit. Except, you know, whatever you guys say to each other when you're--"

"Okay. I get it." Steph slouched in his seat and stared out the window pensively, not entirely convinced.

"Hey." Klay waggled his brows at Steph, giving him a big smile when he reluctantly glanced over. "How 'bout a smoothie to make you feel better?"

Steph snorted, but he couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. "You sure it's not to make yourself feel better after that girl ignored your ass?"

Klay scowled at him, throwing the car into drive and slowly pulling forward. "Hey, fuck you, man. I didn't even get a chance to work my magic thanks to you."

Steph laughed, turning back to the window as they pulled out onto the road. Maybe Klay was right: he was just letting LeBron psyche him out. He forced himself to cast the other man's words out of his mind--at least for now. After all: it was a beautiful day, the Championship was within their reach once again, and he was with his best friend.

All his worries could wait.  
\----

Steph felt like he had a target on his back. 

This time it was Tristan Thompson and Kyrie Irving who trapped him near the 3-point line, the former waving his arms in distraction while the smaller Kyrie attempted to dart in and snatch the ball away. Pressure rising, the shot clock winding down, Steph took his chance and made a wild shot, unsurprised when he missed by a mile.

Before the buzzer even sounded Steph was already heading to the locker room for halftime, chewing pensively on his mouth guard. It seemed like he'd been heckled by nearly every one of the Cleveland players that night: Frye, Love, Shumpert, and of course LeBron. They'd played a similar strategy on Klay; neither one of them had a fraction of their usual points, and as a result they were barely winning. 

Klay found him on the bench, chugging a bottle of Gatorade. "Rough start," he commented, dropping down next to Steph. "But we expected it."

Steph grimaced, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still fucking sucks. At least the other guys are killing it." Livingston and Barbosa especially were having an impressive game, along with Iggy, who'd already nearly gotten into a fight with the mouthy Shumpert. 

"Don't make that face. It makes you look like an angry toddler." Klay slung an arm around his shoulders, flashing a grin. "Don't worry, man. The 'Splash Brothers' can't always be the stars, you know? The rest of the squad'll take care of business."

Steph's grimace only deepened. While it was true that you couldn't throw down 40 points every night, being stymied so efficiently still grated--especially in the first game. "Man, I hope so. It's way too fucking close right now." He wrinkled his nose. "You are, too. Get off me--you're sweaty as hell."

Klay laughed and released him, thumping him on the back. "Like you ain't."

Kerr called them over for a quick discussion on strategy for the next half, and before Steph knew it he was back on the court. Only a minute in, he had his chance: Bogut set a screen on Kyrie, and with the other players distracted he was able to drive right up the middle to the basket for a layup. LeBron saw him, darting across the key and swiping for the ball just as it left Steph's hands. The ball bounced off the rim, and though he stayed near the basket he was crowded out by LeBron and Love, who easily caught the rebound. 

The irritating pattern continued, until finally Kerr pulled him out with five minutes left in the last quarter. Draping his towel over his sweaty head and chewing sulkily on his mouth guard, Steph watched as his team pulled ahead, leaving the Cavs further and further behind. Frustrated by his less-than-stellar game (he'd only made 4 out of 15 three's) and Kerr's decision to bench him, Steph slouched sullenly in his seat and leaned his head back against the chair, covering his entire face with his towel to blot out the overhead lights. 

He remained that way, eyes closed, listening to the screams from the crowd until the final buzzer sounded: Cavs 89, Warriors 104. Despite his mood Steph couldn't help but do a little victory dance in his seat, reaching out to high five the guys as they returned to the bench. 

"One down, three to go!" Klay exclaimed as he took a long swig from his water bottle, optimistic even in the face of his own rocky night. "Let's go get fucked up!" 

He winced at the sharp look Kerr shot him. "Uh, I mean let's go take a rest and mentally prepare ourselves for the next game?" he said sheepishly. 

Steph shook his head as he rose from his seat, mouth guard bobbing. "C'mon. Let's get out of here before Kerr makes you practice free throws all night again."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-yo everyone!
> 
> Sorry for the wait @_@ I've been kinda down and out lately which seems to sap my creativity. But I hope you enjoy this new (hopefully sexy) chapter!
> 
> As always, please check the updated tags, such as the face-slapping, which isn't OK'd beforehand by Steph, although he does like it. 
> 
> Also to be honest I debated with myself about adding some daddy!kink up in this bitch. Personally I like it (obviously) but I thought that some people might find it..creepy? I dunno. But in the end I was talked into it, so, um, please enjoy. And thanks to everyone for reading! :D

It had been a long night. 

Right after the game Steph had grabbed a quick shower before the post-game interview alongside Livingston and Kerr. Once he'd fulfilled that obligation, he and a few of the guys had headed out for a snack and drinks, all of them agreeing to keep the latter a secret from their surly coach. 

He hadn't gotten home until after midnight, immediately laying down and falling into a heavy sleep. By 10am he was awake and heading out for a protein shake on the way to his workout. After a bit of exercise he'd met with Tyrell for another Graston treatment, and although Steph had been worried it would be awkward after their last encounter, Tyrell was as cheery as ever, making no mention of their almost-kiss. 

Afterwards he'd headed home, fielded a call from his mom--which consisted of 40 minutes of him listening to her talk and making little noises of agreement in all the right places--and then watched some TV, something he rarely had time to do. 

Finally he'd met up with Klay and Iggy for dinner at their favorite Chinese restaurant, he and Klay laughing as Iggy did impressions of the unfortunate ref who'd been bowled over by Barbosa during the previous night's game. His laughing had been interrupted by his phone buzzing to signify a new text. 

_10pm_

He'd been a bundle of nerves for the rest of dinner, barely touching his food (Klay had looked dubious at his excuse that he'd had a big lunch, but he'd let it slide). It was around nine when they'd finished up at the restaurant and parted ways, and Steph had been too excited to go home for such a short amount of time. Instead he'd driven right to the hotel he'd been at only two days prior, nearly giddy at the knowledge that LeBron wanted to see him again so soon.

Steph was feeling good. Confident. Part of it, of course, had to do with their victory in game one. Despite LeBron's solemn criticism of their team they had still trounced the Cavs, getting off to a great start on their quest for a second Championship in a row. It would be impossible for Steph not to gloat over the fact (at least a little) once he met up with the other man. 

More superficially, Steph knew he was looking good. For dinner he'd gotten a little dressed up, donning a sharp blazer, dark, fitted jeans and a new pair of his own shoes. Despite his disinterest in women it still boosted his ego whenever they eyed him up, and he'd received plenty of heavy looks that night. He hoped LeBron would be similarly affected.

It was only 9:25 when Steph strode inside, whistling tunelessly to himself, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. He was early, but if LeBron wasn't back in his room yet Steph could wait. _Would_ wait.

Luckily within a minute of knocking there came the sound of movement inside, and once he stood in front of LeBron again he was unable to keep the cocky grin from his face.

"What I tell you?" Steph boasted in greeting, uncaring of the way LeBron's eyes had narrowed to slits. He managed to squeeze past the other man, ducking under his arm to eagerly enter the room. "We about to.."

Slowly he trailed off, the grin fading from his face. 

Kyrie Irving and Iman Shumpert were staring at him from around the coffee table in the living area. The former sat hunched and cross-legged on the floor, splayed cards in his hands, while Shumpert sat in a metal-back chair dragged over from the kitchenette, a tumbler glass held frozen against his lips, cards gripped in his free hand. 

On the other end of the table sat a shirtless J.R. Smith, taking a long hit off a bowl. Seemingly oblivious to the sudden silence of the room, he coughed out a thick cloud of smoke, holding the bowl out towards Shumpert. "You tryin'a hit this pipe?" he rasped.

When no response came he glanced over towards the door, his lax expression slowly transforming into a scowl. "Hey, man, what the fuck this dude doing here?"

Broken from his mortified trance, Steph took a step back, his easy confidence from a few moments ago nowhere to be found. "Uh--I just--"

"LeBron--the fuck is going on?" Shumpert spoke up, wearing a similar scowl, his entire body tense as if prepared to spring at any moment. Irving sat watching in silence, his brow runkled slightly in consternation.

From behind him LeBron said nothing, but Steph could feel the displeasure radiating off him in waves. Slightly panicked, feeling compelled to cover them both, he gave a weak little laugh. "Man, someone told me there were some bitches in here--"

It was not exactly the right thing to say. 

"You say what muhfucker?" Smith growled, hopping up from his chair with surprising agility. Shumpert rose slowly from his own seat, dark eyes locked onto Steph like a predator fixed on its prey. The third Cavalier remained seated, brow furrowing further, his mouth slightly pursed as if trying to decipher the situation.

Smith made to move forward. "I'mma break this nervy muhfucker's scrawny lil' neck-"

Steph shrank back towards LeBron, heart racing with adrenaline, his body tensed in fight-or-flight mode. 

"Enough, man."

Reluctantly Smith halted, still eyeing Steph with undisguised contempt. 

LeBron moved slightly in front of Steph, cool and calm as ever. "I told him to come," he said. "Heard this motherfucker kissing his own ass before the game. He bet me some cash he'd make at least 30 points." He glanced casually over at Steph, arching a brow. "Well? Pay up, champ."

"Ah-" Steph made a big show of digging around for his wallet, finding it in his back right pocket. He usually never carried cash on him, but for once he was in luck: a crisp $100 bill was folded inside. Reluctantly he handed it over.

Shumpert was looking at them dubiously, clearly skeptical of the excuse, but J.R. had already flopped back down in his chair and reached for his pipe, apparently deciding the matter didn't involve him. 

"If he run his mouth again I'mma knock his head off," he said offhandedly, before lighting up again.

LeBron pocketed the bill in one smooth movement, jerking his head towards the door. "Ain't it past your bedtime? Get the fuck outta here."

Steph did not need to be told twice. He slipped out the door in record speed, head awhirl and heart still racing, feeling very much like he'd just escaped the lion's den. Before he'd even crossed the downstairs lobby his phone was lighting up.

_wait. 10PM_

Steph exhaled shakily, forcing his shoulders to relax. It was only 9:40. 

For the next twenty minutes he sat in his car, music on low in a futile attempt to distract himself from the very real possibility that he had just completely ruined everything. LeBron was intensely protective of his public image, and although it was impossible to prevent every negative thing said about you in the media, it was also imperative not to fuel the fire yourself--something Steph himself had quickly learned. It was possible that LeBron was going to decide their "thing" simply wasn't worth the risk of exposure.

He sat, quietly brooding in the dark, all earlier excitement forgotten. Even once it had reached ten o'clock he waited ten minutes more, not eager to repeat the tense encounter. At last he went back inside, practically dragging his feet with reluctance as he made his way back upstairs. Once more he stood knocking on the door, casting nervous glances around the empty hallway, feeling almost like the titular character in an undercover spy movie. 

As soon as the door opened he was yanked roughly inside, and just one look at LeBron's face had his pulse skyrocketing.

"LeBron-" he began, but the other man slammed him bodily up against the nearest wall, nearly knocking the breath out of him. Steph fell silent, eyes widening in alarm. LeBron looked fucking _pissed_. He suddenly wished he were back out in the hall.

"You stupid little bitch," LeBron growled, grip tight to bruising on his biceps, face so close to Steph's that their noses nearly brushed. "You outta your fucking mind?"

Steph said nothing, his mouth too dry to speak, frozen under the dark, angry gaze like a deer in headlights. He had never seen LeBron so enraged.

"There's a fucking reason I tell you to be here when I tell you to be here. You that fucking desperate for dick you can't even do what I fucking tell you to do? Or are you just fucking stupid?" When Steph remained speechless LeBron reared back and cracked him one across the face. 

Steph gasped, his head jerking slightly to the side from the impact. There was a single moment of numbness, and then throbbing pain exploded across his entire face, radiating from the struck point like an earthquake. He blinked owlishly against sudden, stunned tears, brow heavily creased. Shamefully he felt a rush of arousal, his dick twitching with interest in his tight jeans. 

"I asked you a fuckin' question. Are you fucking stupid, or just too dick-hungry to listen?"

Steph turned his head back to meet the furious gaze, suddenly feeling very warm, as if he'd had a couple drinks. "I didn't think--"

LeBron smacked him again, this time in the mouth. Steph groaned, going boneless in the other man's grip, his head falling back to thump against the wall. He looked at LeBron through heavily-lidded eyes, head swimming with arousal, his dick pressing maddeningly up against his too-tight jeans. It stung like a bitch, but still he could tell that LeBron was holding back, not truly trying to hurt him. 

For some reason it made Steph even hotter, knowing that LeBron could seriously hurt him if he really wanted to. 

"No fucking shit you didn't think. And then you come in here calling J.R. a bitch? If I ain't stopped him he would've tore your ass to shreds." 

LeBron gripped him by the throat, big hand easily spanning the width of it, forcing Steph to look at him. "What the fuck you think would happen if everyone found out about this shit?" Without giving Steph a chance to answer LeBron smacked him again, and Steph couldn't contain his whimper, his mouth tingling from the impact. "How many of your little bandwagon fans you think would show up at your next game if they knew how much you like sucking dick? You think Under Armor would still be calling you up? Or is the only thing you can think about when you're gonna get dicked next?"

Flushing, Steph stayed silent, his eyes sliding away from LeBron's, shame fluttering in his stomach at the harsh words. 

LeBron's dark eyes searched his face for a long, tense moment before the other man gave an abrupt sneer. "You know what your problem is? You always been a spoiled, rich little brat who got anything he wanted. Your daddy ain't beat your ass like you needed when you was growing up." 

He pressed in even closer, crushing Steph against the wall with his bulk, big hand still curled around his slim neck as hot as a brand. "Guess what, bitch? Tonight I'm Daddy."

A surprised groan fell from Steph's mouth, his blood pumping with arousal, dick jumping in his jeans. Somehow, in that moment, the word coming from LeBron was the hottest thing he'd ever heard.

"You like that?" LeBron murmured, pressing a wet kiss right under Steph's ear, his hard dick digging into Steph's stomach. 

There was no use denying it. "Yeah," he groaned, barely able to breathe under the pressure of the other player's body against his. He bucked his hips up slightly, thrilling at the press of his own dick against LeBron's. 

"Yeah, what?"

"Yeah, Daddy.." The word felt clumsy and awkward on his tongue, and it was almost embarrassing to hear it come from his own mouth, but Steph had suddenly never been harder in his life. 

Something like grim satisfaction came over LeBron's face, and he took a step back, looking down his nose at Steph from his superior height. "Get my fucking dick wet."

Slowly Steph slid down the wall, knees popping in protest. He rocked forward and pulled down the other man's shorts, allowing his dick to spring free. Without further prompting he opened his mouth wide and sucked LeBron all the way down. 

Predictably he gagged, throat bucking in protest, but he kept at it, fingers digging into LeBron's thighs, his jaw already straining. LeBron tangled a hand in his hair, fucking roughly into his mouth, and Steph fell back onto his heels at the vigorous motion, his back thumping against the wall. One hand braced on the wall for leverage, LeBron fucked his mouth until it felt like it would split right at the seams, and Steph couldn't move, trapped between the wall and the other man's solid bulk. Tears streaming down his cheeks, his chin soaked with spit, Steph struggled to breathe, his throat screaming in protest, eyes nearly rolling in their sockets at the rough treatment. 

With something like a growl LeBron finally pulled out, hand moving frantically over his dick, his grip tightening in Steph's hair. Steph blinked up at him with damp, heavy eyes, brow creased, his untouched dick still hard in his jeans.

"Daddy..?" he croaked, the word rolling more easily off his tongue this time around. 

LeBron cursed, entire body stiffening, and then he was shooting, spattering cum all over Steph's swollen mouth. 

He shook out every last drop, until Steph's mouth and chin were soaked with it, some of it dripping down onto his t-shirt. At last he was through, releasing his grip and stepping back as he pulled his shorts back in place. Steph watched in confusion as LeBron casually made his way over to the mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, taking a long swig. 

"What the fuck, dude?" Shakily Steph pushed off the wall and rose to his feet, knees numb and heels aching from kneeling. He approached the island counter, scowling faintly, cum still dripping from his chin. "That's it? I don't get shit?"

LeBron rubbed his mouth on the back of his arm and set the bottle on the counter, meeting his gaze. "Yeah, I got something for you." He rifled in his pocket, producing his wallet, and tossed a bill on the counter. Steph grabbed it up in bewilderment--it was $5.00. 

Stomach plummeting, he glanced angrily up at LeBron, who was watching him coolly. 

"That's what that shitty suck job was worth." LeBron raised a brow at him. "Didn't I tell you? You can't get everything your little bitch-ass wants. Now fuck outta here."

Gobsmacked, his cheeks reddening, Steph felt a wave of humiliation wash over him, the five clenched tightly in his fist. LeBron grabbed his water bottle and headed for the living area, dropping down into the leather chair in front of the TV and ignoring Steph completely.

Furious and too stunned to speak, Steph threw the five back down on the counter and headed for the door, yanking it open and letting it fall shut heavily behind him. In his anger he realized he'd forgotten the cum on his face: hastily he wiped it away with the neck of his t-shirt, stomach jumping as he glanced around the empty hallway. 

Soon he was back in his car, still tense with fury, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. His erection had wilted entirely, but his body felt high-strung, agitated by its denied climax. Mostly, though, he just felt pissed off. It was the worst humiliation LeBron had inflicted on him so far. Sure he'd fucked up by showing up so early--just thinking about it made his cheeks flush hot again--but to leave him high and dry, throw a fucking five at him and kick him out like he was nothing but a cheap fucking whore--

Steph cursed and started his car, gripping tight to the steering wheel as he left the parking lot and began to head home. Despite his anger at the other man he knew he was going to go home and jerk off furiously, thinking of nothing but LeBron--his filthy words, his hand coming down on Steph's mouth (and fuck, it hurt so _good_ )--and how nothing had ever turned him on more than calling the other man _Daddy_. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! *waves* I'm back with a new chapter! 
> 
> Is anyone else already super ready for next season? Like I know it's only been a month since last season ended and I swear I've just been sitting here like..okay..what now? I feel like I have no life now that basketball is over. Thank God for fanfic huh?
> 
> As always a big thank-you to everyone who's been reading! It seriously makes my day when someone says they're enjoying the story :D
> 
> As a token of my thanks, please enjoy this Steph Curry meme that I stumbled across a few weeks ago:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> My thoughts, in order, after I saw this pic:
> 
> 1\. LOL  
> 2\. he's literally wearing a backwards cap and drinking a smoothie, is my fanfic coming true?!  
> 3\. he looks like he's 15, i feel dirty just looking at him  
> 4\. why is he so ridiculously pretty?  
> 5\. hmm i gotta work on my fanfic
> 
> xD Soo yeah. Hope everyone has a good week, and enjoy the new chapter!!

Steph arrived at the Q an hour earlier than the rest of the guys for the pre-game three interview and headed straight for the locker room, headphones jammed firmly in place.

The good thing about coming in so early was the lack of cameras in his face as he made his way through the darkened halls. He'd gotten used to the constant media coverage--he'd accepted the nosy reporters and flashing lights, as much a part of his job as the actual game time--but right then he was feeling too pensive to deal with any up-close scrutiny. 

Game two at the Oracle had gone more than well. He hadn't exactly knocked it out of the park point-wise, only scoring 18 for the night, but in the end it hadn't mattered. Draymond had been the star of the evening with 28 points total, leading them in their ruthless 110-77 victory over the Cavs ("Looks like this shit'll be over even faster than we thought!" Draymond had crowed, flexing like Hercules for a guffawing Barnes and Ezeli, and even Kerr's smile had been slightly less grimace-y than usual). 

Steph had clung to his own elation at their second win, trying vainly to keep all thoughts of LeBron at bay. It had been fairly easy to keep himself distracted, as the following morning they boarded the plane back to Cleveland, and the entire next day was spent in preparation: light practice, strengthening workouts, pep talks and strategy planning. 

It was only at night, back at the hotel--once Klay and Iggy had retired to their own rooms--that thoughts of LeBron had resurfaced. And now, being inside the Q once again, Steph predictably found his mind drifting towards the other player. 

He scowled, plopping his gym bag down on the bench and pulling out his phone, frown deepening slightly when he saw he had no new messages. He hadn't spoken to LeBron since the other man had thrown him out of his hotel room a few nights prior, and truthfully Steph was starting to get a little antsy by the radio silence that had followed. For all he knew, their close call at being exposed by LeBron's teammates had been a wake up call for the older man--one that had convinced him he didn't want anything to do with Steph after all. 

It was, admittedly, a very upsetting thought. But pride had kept Steph from reaching out himself. The last thing he wanted was to come off like some sort of clingy girlfriend, or something equally unpalatable. So as difficult as it had been, Steph had restrained himself from texting the number he'd long since memorized--and if he kept checking his phone every five minutes, well. LeBron didn't have to know about that. 

"There you are!"

Steph was startled out of his rumination by Kerr's sudden hurried entrance, his mouth pinched as if he'd been sucking on a lemon.

"The interview's starting in three minutes; we've gotta go," the coach told him, already turning to head back out the door. "Iggy's already there."

"Coming." Steph shoved his phone back in his pocket and followed after the coach, only just barely suppressing the reflex to fiddle with a mouth guard that was not yet in place.

Of all the aspects of his job, it was the interviews that he hated most. Unfortunately as one of the star players on the team, he dealt with them far more often than he'd like. Although Steph considered himself a fairly confident person, there was nothing so uncomfortable as being put on the spot, at the mercy of the interviewers' complex (or sometimes outright batshit) questions. 

There were times when Steph had been well and truly stumped by an unordinary question and had rattled off the first thing that popped in his head, later cringing at his inane response. Worse yet was when a particularly sly reporter attempted to get him to trash-talk other teams or players. More than once Steph had stumbled over his answer to such a question, and more than once his words had been twisted around for click-baity articles that went viral on social media. 

Fortunately for Steph that night's interview only lasted about 15 minutes, and all of the questions were fairly routine. It was with no small amount of relief that he hopped down off the podium--only to nearly come crashing into Iggy's back.

Ordinarily the interviews were staggered enough so that players of opposing teams didn't run into each other, but that night's interview had started ten minutes later than usual (much to Kerr's frustration). Which explained why LeBron stood off to the side of the room, still in his street clothes, talking to Tyronn Lue and Kyrie Irving as they awaited their turn in front of the cameras. Steph stared, his heart picking up pace as he took in the sharply dressed figure that towered easily over both other men, nodding his head in agreement at something Lue was saying. 

He murmured an apology to Iggy, eyes still locked on the trio as he slowly made his way towards the door. Irving was laughing, looking up at LeBron with naked admiration, and something about it made Steph's jaw clench. 

No..that was stupid. Steph had heard all about Irving's ex-girlfriend drama a few months ago (courtesy of Klay, who was worse than a fucking chick when it came to gossip). There was no way he and LeBron had any sort of "thing" going on like Steph and LeBron did. Ripping his eyes away from the scene, Steph headed back to the locker room with shoulders tense, trying not to think too much about it. 

Although it was too early to go out on the court for warm-ups Steph changed into his uniform anyways, pulling his sweats and long sleeve tee on over top. Flopping down on the bench, he began browsing the web, and was just reading about predictions for that night's game when a new text popped up on his screen.

_you busy?_

Heart speeding up slightly, he re-read the short message several times, mulling over his options. Finally, he tapped out an equally nonchalant reply. _not really_

_come upstairs in 5. room 101_

"Seriously?" Steph scowled down at the screen, debating with himself on how to respond. Although it was too early for the rest of the guys (or the fans) to show up at the arena, it would still be an incredible risk to meet in private. It made him cringe just thinking about the explosive headlines that would follow if someone were to stumble across them. It would probably break the fucking internet.

On another note, his pride was still a little bruised from their last encounter. The thought of jumping to do the other man's bidding after he'd humiliated Steph-- _be honest,_ his mind supplied, _after he kicked your ass out without fucking you_ \--was tough to entertain. Frowning, he typed out his response.

_whats in it for me?_

A little petulant, maybe, but what did the other man expect after he'd treated Steph like that? He was lucky Steph was responding at all.

His phone lit up again within seconds. 

_come find out_

Steph let out a shuddery breath, already feeling a stirring of excitement in his gut at the promising words. 

If he was a better man he would've told LeBron to go fuck himself. Instead he found himself climbing the stairway to the next floor, glancing around cautiously for any signs of life. Luckily the floor was seemingly deserted, and he found room 101 easily enough, unsurprised to find it unlocked. 

He entered tentatively, unsure of what to expect--but it was just a sparse conference room, empty except for a large desk and a couple of chairs. Gray light streamed in from the windows on the far wall, bathing the room in a faint glow, so Steph ignored the light switch, glancing down at his phone as he closed the door behind him. No new messages. 

For several long minutes he waited, perched on the edge of the desk, staring down at his phone. He was just about to concede that the whole thing was another power play on LeBron's part when the sound of the knob turning made him look up sharply.

LeBron slipped in silently, closing and locking the door behind him, his expression unreadable. A sudden anger overtook Steph, and he jumped to his feet, his heart thumping wildly against his rib cage. 

"Man, what the fuck? You get pissed at me for running into your boys at the hotel but then wanna meet up where anybody and their fuckin' brother could catch us? What kinda bullshit is that?" 

LeBron appeared unaffected by his tirade, moving in close until they were nearly touching, the heat of his body making Steph's mouth go dry. "If it's such bullshit then why you here?" 

Steph huffed out a breath, eyes sliding to the side to study the drab Cleveland landscape beyond the window. "You owe me one," he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets with artificial cool, avoiding LeBron's gaze.

"Oh yeah? Owe you what?" Fingers tangled in his hair, and then LeBron tugged his head gently to the side, exposing his neck. Steph couldn't contain a full-body shiver as the other man leaned in and pressed a slow, chaste kiss right against his pulse point. 

Cheeks flushing, he said nothing, already a fucking puddle in the other man's hands though he'd barely been touched. He wasn't sure he could trust his voice right then.

"You still upset I didn't pound your ass the other night?"

He made a small noise in his throat--neither confirmation nor denial--his eyes fluttering shut to block out the heaviness of LeBron's gaze studying him so closely. 

"Look at me."

Reluctantly Steph flicked his eyes up to meet LeBron's, his breath catching in his chest at the piercing look. 

"All you gotta do is what I tell you to do," the other man murmured, giving a small tug on Steph's hair. "And I'll give you what you need. Simple."

It really did sound simple, right then; all of Steph's irritation faded away to nothing, replaced with a pounding heart and a buzzing in his skull. He couldn't look away from the dark brown eyes, the ones that haunted him in his fucking sleep, the ones he saw when he lay in bed and fucked himself on his own fingers. When he was on his own he could admit to himself he was being stupid--could admit that maybe Klay had a fucking point, maybe LeBron really was just trying to ruin him--but this close to the other man, underneath that heavy gaze, Steph knew he would say yes to anything he asked.

The look on LeBron's face said he knew it too. "You gonna do what I tell you?"

The words were falling from Steph's mouth before he could even register them. "Yeah, Daddy.."

A brief smirk touched the other man's lips. "Yeah, that's what I thought." Then, tugging Steph's head back slightly, LeBron leaned in and kissed him. 

Steph gasped, his knees nearly buckling underneath him. He kissed back sloppily, a little desperately, pressing himself tightly against the other man, hands rising up to clutch at the thick biceps for stability as LeBron's tongue plundered his mouth. All too soon the other man was pulling away, licking at Steph's bottom lip as he retreated, and Steph let out a faint noise of protest, glancing up at the other player with glassy eyes. 

"Not much time," LeBron said shortly, nodding to the desk behind them. "Show me that ass."

Still reeling from the kiss, Steph did as he was told, turning to lean over the desk and brace his hands against its hard surface. LeBron wasted no time, yanking down his pants and shorts, his bare flesh prickling under the cool air. 

He nearly jumped when LeBron smacked his ass, making the firm flesh jump. "C'mon, you know better than that. Spread your legs."

Face reddening, Steph leaned forward a little further and arched his hips, spreading his knees as far apart as his pants would allow. He gave his dick a few strokes as he listened to the sound of rustling clothes behind him, making a small noise of surprise when warm flesh pressed suddenly up against him. A big hand grabbed roughly at his ass to spread him open, and then two spit-slick digits were sliding into him. 

LeBron fingered him quick and dirty, drawing little noises from his throat, and soon the fingers were replaced with the blunt head of LeBron's cock. The burn as the other man began to push inside was almost too much: Steph keened, his entire body stiffening, rocking forward in an unconscious attempt to get away from the pain.

"Relax." LeBron draped over his back and yanked Steph's hips back, the head of his dick slipping past the tight ring of muscle. Steph shuddered, trying his best to obey, straining to uphold himself under the other man's greater weight. 

Inch by agonizing inch LeBron pushed inside, until finally his hips were pressed snug against Steph's ass. Steph struggled to breathe through the pain, ass throbbing as it tried to accommodate the intruder. A hand smoothing over his thigh made him flinch. 

"Relax," LeBron repeated, stubble scraping against the back of his neck. "You always gotta tense up and make it worse on yourself."

"How about I fuck you next time and see if you can relax," Steph bit out, letting out a small breath as his body opened up a little more, the pain slowly beginning to lessen.

He yelped as the other player brought a hand down on his ass, teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of his neck at the same time. "I'll make you a deal," LeBron murmured, rocking his hips slightly. "If you win the Gold Cup this year you can be on top."

Steph frowned, pushing back into the slight thrusts, the faintest amount of pleasure beginning to lick at his spine. "Gold Cup? But that's for soccer.."

"Exactly." Grabbing tight to his hips, LeBron pulled nearly all the way out and slammed back in. 

Steph barely suppressed a scream as LeBron began brutally fucking into him, forcing his body open. He leaned more heavily over Steph, one arm wound tight around Steph's stomach, his free hand pressed against the desk for leverage. Steph drooped slightly under the massive weight, breath coming in short gasps as LeBron shoved into him again and again.

"Fuck, you feel good," he growled in Steph's ear, sharp as a knife. "Always so fucking tight for me."

"Fuck, Daddy." Steph's head fell back against the other man's shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut against the sharp spikes of pleasure shooting up his spine.

LeBron suddenly released his arm and shoved Steph down flat over the surface of the desk, yanking his hips back, his rhythm never faltering. "Say it again."

"Fuck, Daddy!" With the new angle LeBron's dick pressed right against his prostate, making stars explode across his vision with every thrust. He managed to worm a hand underneath himself, tugging clumsily at his dick, his balls already heavy with his impending release.

"See how much better it is when you do what I fucking tell you?" LeBron's thrusts were speeding up, becoming more erratic, the desk creaking underneath them. 

"Yeah," Steph groaned, pulling on his dick, toes curling tight in his shoes. 

"Yeah, what?"

"Yeah, Daddy.." He was so fucking close--

"Shit!" A hand clamped down on the back of his neck in a vice-like grip, and then LeBron shoved in a final time, spilling deep into his ass. 

With a gasp Steph followed him over the edge, spilling all over his own hand, cum smearing on the desk and staining his t-shirt. He milked his dick until the very last drop, shuddering as he felt LeBron pull out, taking his heat with him.

With some effort he managed to push himself upright, grimacing as cum dribbled from his sore hole and began trailing down the backs of his thighs. It would be fun trying to get back downstairs to the locker room so he could clean himself up. Making a face--there was no way around it--he reluctantly pulled his shorts and pants back in place.

Having already redressed himself, LeBron was watching him with amusement. "Better take a quick shower and rest for a few minutes before the game. You can't afford to be missing those three's-- again."

Steph huffed out a breath, scowling a little at the mild taunt. "I'm not worried about it." Hesitantly, he stepped forward until they were only inches apart, leaning up almost shyly--

A hand in his hair halted his movements, and Steph just barely managed to conceal his disappointment, glancing up to find LeBron looking down his nose at him and eyeing him critically.

"You'd better be worried. You're in my house tonight," he murmured, all amusement gone, and Steph felt his stomach jump.

Still his eyes slid shut as LeBron pressed the briefest of kisses to his mouth, so soft he barely felt it at all, in stark contrast to the stinging grip in his hair that held him tightly in place.

\------ 

LeBron's cryptic warning had not been for nothing: the game was a total shitshow from the very beginning. Cavs were up by 20 in the very first quarter, and Steph couldn't help but feel responsible, only managing a few measly points himself. Even Klay's eternal optimism had been dampened: he'd gotten an early injury courtesy of the giant Russian Mozgov, and although he'd quickly been cleared to return he was clearly still in pain from the collision. 

By halftime they'd managed to return within ten points, but the second half had not fared any better for them. Steph had been unable to outmaneuver Kyrie Irving and J.R. Smith, not to mention LeBron. Near the end of the third quarter, after a whistle had brought the game to a brief halt, Steph had attempted to drive in for a layup, just for something--anything--to get himself going; but LeBron was there, jumping up behind him and easily smacking the ball away. Steph had caught the faintest hint of a smirk on the other man's face before he'd turned casually away, as if he'd merely swatted down a particularly irritating insect. 

Kerr had been nearly purple with rage since the start of the game, at one point shouting at Steph in front of everyone to ask if he was okay. Steph had simply nodded sagely, too humiliated to respond aloud, unable to explain his poor playing and feeling the pressure of their impending loss. 

Halfway through the fourth quarter Klay dropped down beside him on the bench, still limping slightly, his normally cheery face grim. 

"Don't look like we're coming back from this one," he remarked unnecessarily, taking a swig from his Gatorade. 

Steph grimaced, gazing off to the other end of the court where a brief hiatus was occurring. "No shit. At this point I wish they'd just fucking finish us off and be done with it." His brow furrowed as he watched LeBron say something to Irving, making the shorter man break into laughter; grinning, LeBron smacked the other player on the ass as he moved past him to fall back into position. Sure, it was a normal part of basketball camaraderie, but was it his imagination or did Irving look like he'd fucking enjoyed that a little too much--

"Well, the good news is it's only game three and we're still up by two," Klay said brightly, oblivious to his quiet seething. "The bad news is I'm pretty sure you've got the number one spot on Kerr's shit list at the moment. I mean if looks could kill you'd be six fucking feet under right now. Don't be surprised if you have to run some suicides in the very near future."

"Something to look forward to," Steph said dryly, tearing his eyes away from LeBron.

Finally, mercifully, it was over: 120-90 Cavs. Steph rose from the bench, eager to go lick his wounds in the locker room--but not before he inadvertently caught sight of Irving wrapping LeBron in a giant hug, looking elated by their brutal victory.

Gritting his teeth, Steph turned from the scene, ignoring the cheers of victory from the crowd as he headed off the court. He was suddenly more than anxious to escape from enemy territory, get away from the probing cameras and Kerr's poisonous looks, and the sight of Irving touching LeBron so freely--and LeBron letting him do it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I am here once again to drop off a new chapter!
> 
> Unfortunately, it contains no sex! BUT I had to advance the (tiny, minuscule) plot. What it does contain is: some more jealousy on Steph's part towards Kyrie Irving, angst-y introspection, Draymond bullying our favorite lil Warrior once again, and, um, more angst-y introspection xD Do not fear however--next chapter will definitely contain more bangin'. 
> 
> Thanks so much to all of you guys!! To be honest when I first started writing this and posted just the first chapter, I really did not expect anyone to read it. I was OK with it because I have a blast writing it..but I've just been seriously overwhelmed by all the nice comments, kudos, and just how many people have been reading in general! It seriously makes my day knowing that people are enjoying the story! THANK YOU!!
> 
> As a token of my thanks, please enjoy this video of Steph doing the 'Carlton' dance with Justin Timberlake and Alfonso Ribeiro at a recent golf tournament: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYH9hbisSfc
> 
> BOY CAN MOVE HIS HIPS. It made me feel things. LOL

After the massacre that was game 3, Kerr chewed their asses out for almost 40 minutes in the locker room. Steph sat slumped on the bench, sandwiched between Klay and Barnes, eyes trained on the tiled floor as Kerr paced agitatedly back and forth with hands on hips, spittle flying as he ranted.

"We've got to get our shit together, boys," he sighed out, finally coming to a stop in front of them, suddenly seeming more tired than angry. "We can't give them any momentum. The sooner we finish this thing, the sooner we can celebrate, right? So let's go out there next time and show everyone why we're the champions."

After the solemn post-game interview with Klay and Kerr (which they arrived late for, thanks to Kerr's lecture), Steph grabbed a sandwich before heading back to the hotel, declining Klay's invitation to hang out with the excuse that he was going to get some early rest.

But after an hour and a half of laying in the huge bed and staring up at the ceiling, Steph conceded that it wasn't going to happen. Giving up, he reached for his phone, unable to stop the brief flare of disappointment when he saw that he had no new texts. Not that he'd really expected any--LeBron had already gotten what he'd wanted earlier that day. Still, he'd half thought that maybe the other man would text him, just to rub in the Cavs' victory a little.

Sighing, he pulled up the top trending stories, despite the little voice inside of him saying it was a dumb idea. Ordinarily he tried to avoid reading the articles about them--especially during such a high-stakes time like the Finals--but a masochistic part of him couldn't help but want to read what was being posted.

Sure enough, within 20 seconds he'd spotted the first headline: _Curry's Disappearing Act Has Warriors Scratching Heads._ Cringing, he skimmed over a few others: _Cavs Jump Right Back In NBA Finals With Blowout Win Over Warriors_ and _NBA Finals 2016: No Kevin Love, No Problem for Cavaliers In Game 3._

There were countless others, some of them questioning the nosedive performance, others sounding gleeful that they'd finally lost. Steph clicked on one at random-- _James, Irving Lift Cavaliers to Win in NBA Finals Game 3_ \--and scrolled through it, chewing idly on his bottom lip as he read the blatantly pro-Cavs piece. He was just about to go back when something caught his eye--a link to another article titled _Kyrie Irving, LeBron James Celebrate Game 3 Win With Selfie._

Brow furrowing, he clicked on the link. One quick glance over it told him it was a puff piece about the two stars, their incredible teamwork, and their combined 62 points for that night's game. 

But it was the embedded image that caught Steph's eye: it was an up close picture of the two men in what looked like a restaurant, taken from Irving's Instagram. LeBron was laughing, eyes closed and head slightly bowed, while Irving was cheesing for the camera, grinning ear-to-ear, his arm slung around LeBron's shoulders to pull him in close. The caption read simply: _this my dude_ followed by a million different emojis. It was dated only an hour ago. 

Jaw set, Steph clicked out of the window and tossed his phone on the bed next to him, flipping over on his side and grabbing tight to the pillow. He was being stupid as fuck. There was no way LeBron was fucking Kyrie Irving.

Sure, Irving was cute and young..younger than him even--

Steph swore, flopping back over on his other side. He reached for his phone again--then hesitated, faltering mid-reach. What the hell was he even going to text LeBron, anyways? _Are you by any chance smashing your point guard when you're not too busy fucking me?_

He snorted at the ridiculous thought, letting his arm drop next to him on the mattress with a heavy sigh. He wasn't about to bother the other when he was clearly busy out partying. He could see LeBron's response now: _you didn't get enough earlier? you really are a slut._

Steph flushed, squirming a little where he lay. No; he really didn't feel like embarrassing himself more than he already had when it came to LeBron. Besides: there was absolutely nothing going on between LeBron and Irving beyond simple friendship.

Despite telling himself this Steph lay awake for several hours more, his mind in knots, until finally he managed to fall into a shallow and restless sleep. 

 

\-----

 

Game four was the turning point.

They'd spent the previous day in rigorous practice and preparation, going over play after play until Steph was sure he could recite their full strategy in his sleep. Klay had overslept, showing up 20 minutes late, and had felt Kerr's wrath because of it, forced to run laps around the rented gym while the rest of them simulated plays. 

Afterwards he'd received another treatment from a cheerful Tyrell--"You guys better win; I've got money on you," he'd winked--before heading home, utterly exhausted. 

Kerr's tough love had paid off: they'd come out guns blazing, and both he and Klay had killed it from the start, with Iguodola supplementing as third highest scorer. It hadn't been a runaway game--Kevin Love had returned from his concussion-induced hiatus and played effectively against Draymond, and Irving and Smith were racking up the points--but helpfully LeBron was having a rare off-night, missing far more baskets than he'd made.

Now there were only three minutes left in the fourth quarter and they had a comfortable 10-point lead, Steph with over 30 points to his name and Klay not far behind him. Ball in hand, he was facing off against LeBron, who was still playing hard even with the writing pretty much on the wall. Steph motioned to Draymond, and the other man ran over to set a screen, allowing Steph to slip past LeBron. He passed the ball to Ezeli before darting across the key, Irving tailing closely behind him. 

He glanced over just in time to see LeBron step over Draymond, who was laying prone on the floor. Draymond jumped back to his feet, yelling something at LeBron--but Steph's attention was quickly drawn back to Irving, who was trying to push him out from under the basket to prevent him from getting the rebound from Ezeli's failed shot. A moment later Draymond darted up the middle, LeBron hot on his heels; he tried to smack the ball towards Steph, his arm colliding with LeBron as it came down. In an instant they were in each other's faces. 

"The fuck's your problem, man?" Draymond growled, shoving LeBron's arm away from him. "You a fucking bitch!"

The single word set LeBron off like a powder keg. "The fuck you say to me?" He attempted to move in, but the gigantic Frye quickly moved in between the two. "You really wanna fuckin' go there? We two grown-ass men out here, playing a fucking game."

"Doesn't matter. You're still a bitch." Seemingly having had his say, Draymond began walking away.

LeBron made to lunge after him, trying to fight off Smith and Jefferson, who'd come over to help hold him back. 

"Say that shit to me again!" he shouted after Draymond, face twisted in fury, ignoring his teammates and the two refs who were warning him to calm down. 

"Hey, hey, easy." Unable to help himself, Steph stepped in behind LeBron, his hand coming to rest briefly on the other man's back in something like reassurance. But he was soon shoved backwards by the tangle of players as LeBron turned and tried to follow after Draymond, who'd reached up to wave a dismissive hand in response without a backwards glance.

"Let go of me, man!" LeBron snarled, struggling to break free of Smith and get through the two refs who'd formed a wall in between them. Klay and Ezeli had joined the fray, wedging in front of Draymond to put more distance between the two players, and Steph was caught up in the middle, his eyes riveted on LeBron's enraged face. The last time he'd seen LeBron like this was when he'd showed up early at the hotel and nearly gotten them exposed. Just seeing the other man so dangerously upset was enough to set Steph's blood pumping faster, a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. 

"Enough, man, let it go," Smith tried to reason with him, fighting to hold back the bigger player. "We need you, man; just let it go."

"Like fucking hell I will." LeBron finally broke free of Smith's hold and moved around the mini-crowd to get to Draymond, yanking his mouth guard out when he reached the other man. "Yeah, you wanna talk shit and then run away cuz you know I'd kick your punk ass. You'd better watch what you fuckin' say to me, bro."

For once Draymond wisely kept his mouth shut, hands propped casually on his hips, looking almost smug at how badly he'd managed to rile the Cavalier. LeBron, to his credit, walked away after one last sneer in Draymond's direction, apparently deciding that getting thrown out of the game wasn't worth knocking the other man out.

For the rest of the game the mood was beyond tense: Steph could tell that LeBron was still pissed over the altercation with Draymond. He made a few baskets in rapid succession, seeming more determined than he had all night despite the dwindling minutes. 

But the few extra points weren't enough for the Cavs. By the final minute they were still down by seven and Steph's team had possession. He moved to get open for a pass from Iguodola, but LeBron was on top of him, easily blocking his path. Steph shoved at him, trying to get away, nearly tripping over his own feet as LeBron shoved back hard. Right as he was reaching out for the pass LeBron came up behind him and yanked his arm so hard he spun halfway around and toppled forward, only just managing to catch himself from bashing his face into the floor.

The whistle blew, bringing the game to a halt, but it wasn't for the foul call Steph had expected: instead it was Kerr calling for their last time out. Frustrated, he hopped back to his feet and yanked his mouth guard out. "Man, come on. How was that not a foul?" he complained to the nearby ref, gesturing at LeBron, who was already walking away. "He was all over me!" 

Overhearing him, LeBron turned and started back, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he came to a stop only a few feet away. "That right? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I was just playing the game. Ain't that what your team's been doing all night?" 

Steph's nose wrinkled at the taunt, his body going tense as a spring. As usual, just a few words from LeBron--not to mention his close proximity--were enough to make his blood pressure skyrocket. "Nah, man, we've been playing basketball, not pulling fuckin' arms out of sockets." Steph turned back to the ref, shaking his head in disbelief. "That ain't right, man, come on. You know that was a foul."

"Oh, yeah. Playing basketball. That's what you guys call it. Okay. Sure," LeBron said mockingly, nodding his head in sarcastic agreement. "Then that's what I was doing, too. So how 'bout we play some basketball instead of bitching to the refs every couple seconds, huh?"

"Yeah, sure, man, whatever you say." Fuming, Steph turned and walked (stomped) away, shoving his mouth guard back in as he went to rejoin his team. 

"Trouble in paradise?" Klay murmured right into his eardrum, arm curling around his shoulders. 

"Fuck off, man." Steph jerked out of his teammate's hold, scowling petulantly under the glowering look Kerr shot him. He barely heard a word of the coach's final pep talk, thoughts consumed by what had just happened. It wasn't the first time LeBron had sabotaged one of his plays: he was no match against the other man one-on-one, something he could grudgingly admit. Far worse, though, was how LeBron had called him out in front of the refs, the fans, all the cameras..Steph tugged on his hair in mild frustration, feeling his face grow hot. The media was going to have a fucking field day.

He returned to the court agitated and distracted, but it hardly mattered: Klay and Iguodola took care of the ball, and soon the final buzzer was sounding on their third win. Steph congratulated his teammates with half-hearted high-fives and murmured words of praise. When he headed for the locker room it was with head slightly bowed, chewing glumly on his mouth guard, for once resisting the urge to glance anywhere in LeBron's direction.

 

\----

 

"That motherfucker!"

Steph nearly jumped out of his skin as Draymond smashed his fist into the back of the seat in front of him with a sickening crunch, the frame jumping violently under the impact. He appeared to feel no pain, his face twisted in animal rage.

Shortly after takeoff a stone-faced Kerr had informed them of the league's official decision to suspend Draymond for game five. Then he'd disappeared into the back, taking his advisors with him, leaving the rest of them stunned and speechless.

For several long moments no one had said a word. But Draymond's outburst seemed to make the news sink in: everyone began speaking all at once. 

"I can't believe it, man," Barnes said, shaking his head. "Like..what the fuck?" 

"That's some dirty shit," Barbosa added. "Straight up dirty shit."

"You surprised? That dude has the entire fucking league in his back pocket."

"For real, man. If this don't prove he's in bed with Silver.."

"Goddamn, I just don't believe it--"

"I fucking told you he's a bitch!" Draymond growled out, jabbing at the back of the seat again. "Ain't no real man who throws a fuckin' fit anytime someone fucking looks at him!"

"Dray, calm down, man," Iguodola tried, one of the few who seemed to be able to get through to the other man when he was in a rage. 

But Draymond was too incensed to listen. "Don't you fucking get it, bro? This little punk is so desperate to bring home a fuckin' trophy to his shit-hole of a city that he ran crying to the league to get me suspended 'cause I hurt his poor lil' feelings. As if his shitty fuckin' team has a chance!"

Steph had been listening silently, but he was unable to stop himself from speaking up at the wild accusation. "Come on, man. You really think LeBron has that much power over the league?" 

Everyone turned to stare at him with varying levels of bewilderment (with the exception of Varejao, who was staring stoically out the window). Even Klay gave him a funny look. 

"Er, I mean..you already had a couple of flagrants, you know?" he said in a rush, eyes darting over the different faces, trying to find at least one ally. "They said if you got one more you'd be out." 

He fidgeted under the heavy silence, wishing he'd never spoken up. "Um, I'm just saying. It's kind of unlikely he got you suspended on purpose. You know?"

Another long silence, during which Steph briefly considered prying open the emergency door and hopping out. It was Draymond who finally spoke. 

"Yes, Curry, I really do think "King James" has that kinda power," he said with chilling calmness. "The real question is: what the fuck you ridin' his dick for? Who's fuckin' side you on?"

Heart jumping into his throat, Steph shook his head wildly, trying to suppress the horrified expression that was fighting to take over his face. "Nah, man--"

Draymond went on, his voice rising higher and higher until he was practically shouting. "'Cause we can turn around and drop your ass back off in Cleveland if you wanna be a fucking Cavalier so goddamn bad, you smart-ass little prick--"

"Hey, man, enough!" Klay interjected angrily, the first thing he'd said since Kerr had dropped the news. "Don't fucking take it out on Steph, man! He ain't the one you should be mad at here!"

Steph said nothing, his face burning at his own stupidity. What was he thinking, defending LeBron in front of his teammates? And then there was Klay, having to run to his rescue once again..his stomach squirmed unpleasantly as he stared at the back of the seat in front of him, trying to ignore the poisonous look Draymond was shooting him. 

"Look--I think it's fuckin' shitty, too," Klay continued when everyone remained silent. "I mean, obviously the league's trying to help them out. We all know they do whatever James wants. But we got this, guys. They can't win the fuckin' game for him. This'll all be over on Monday."

"Klay's right," Livingston spoke up, arm draped lazily over the back of his seat. "This won't make any difference. We up three to their one."

Iguodola shook his head almost ruefully. "It's some kinda deluded thinking right there. They think they're gonna win just by gettin' Dray kicked out?"

"Right. They must be thinking about their own team," Barbosa grinned. "Everyone knows Cavs ain't shit without LeBron. If it wasn't for him we'd be facing Toronto right now."

Draymond seemed to have calmed, glancing moodily around the cabin as if he hadn't just been screaming a minute earlier. "All I know is I'm gonna fuckin' enjoy walking out on the court after we beat Choke City on Monday. I can't wait to see that bitch's face when he realizes we wrecked his fucking team once again. Who's he gonna cry to then?"

 

\---

An hour later all conversation had died off as everyone settled in to listen to music, watch TV, or take a nap. Steph sat reclined in his seat with his arm pillowed beneath his head, staring blankly out the window. 

"You okay?"

He made a small noise of agreement, not bothering to glance up at Klay, who was leaning over the back of his seat to look at him. He wasn't really in the mood to talk.

"You worried about next game?" Klay questioned, brow creasing.

He WAS worried, at least a little. Draymond was an important part of their strategy, and without him their entire game would be thrown off. They were definitely going to have to play harder if they wanted to close out the Finals in the next game.

But more than that was the worrying thought that LeBron could have gotten his teammate suspended purposefully, just to sabotage them. Part of him didn't believe that LeBron would stoop so low. After all--hadn't he just lectured Steph a little over a week ago about being humble? And what Steph had said earlier was true: Draymond HAD already wracked up several flagrants during their series against the Thunder. It was possible that the league had just finally had enough.

But at the same time, LeBron was under a lot of pressure to win a championship for Cleveland, especially after their disappointing end to last season. Would he be desperate enough to ask the league to pull some strings to keep his team in the game? It was an idea that made him feel a little sick.

"Nevermind. I know why you're upset." Klay leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Look, Steph. I know you have your little..thing..going on with him, but you have to face the fact that the dude just pulled a really dick move on us."

"But how do you know that for sure?" Steph turned from the window to meet his friend's eyes. "Kerr didn't say anything like that."

Klay rolled his eyes a little. "Well the league ain't gonna admit to it. But c'mon, bro. I saw the whole thing last night. The dude knocked Dray down and then stepped over him like he wasn't even there! Of course he got upset. You gotta have respect when you play. LeBron don't have any, man."

Steph hesitated. "That's a little far--"

"Really? Did you forget how he about pulled your arm out right after that?" Klay shook his head. "Face it, bro. The guy knows he needs a trophy or he's gonna get completely slammed by everyone. And the league wants the Cavs to stay in it--the more games, the more views, the more money they make. It ain't really that hard to believe, is it?"

Stomach sinking, Steph slid his eyes back to the window. "Maybe you're right," he murmured.

"I am. Cavs are hanging by a fuckin' thread, so they thought they'd pull some shit to give them another chance. But don't worry," Klay grinned, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. "We got this in the bag. No team has ever come back from a 3-1 lead in the Finals. That trophy is ours."

Steph grunted noncommittally, his thoughts still jumbled. Of course he wanted to win again-- _knew_ they'd win again--but now the whole thing felt somehow cheapened. He'd wanted a fair fight; wanted to come out against LeBron with equal footing, to prove to the other man that his team was better. It was beyond disheartening to think that LeBron, who was a legend in his own right, would try to cheat them out of a win in such a cowardly way.

Grin fading, Klay looked at him with something like pity. "I tried to tell you, man. You don't know what you're doing, fucking around with that guy. He ain't afraid to knock you down to bring himself up. Think about it." He turned back around in his seat, leaving Steph to his thoughts. 

While it was crazy to think of LeBron doing such a thing, part of him had to concede that he really didn't know the other man that well. Bantering, a public rivalry, and a few hookups didn't exactly equal a deep level of understanding of someone's character. 

The mystery was part of the appeal. LeBron was always so aloof, so cold..made him work for the attention--the approval--in a way that Steph wasn't used to, but that somehow made him want it. Made him keep coming back for more. 

But what if Klay was right, and the other player was just fucking him over--literally and figuratively? What if he was willing to sabotage their team just so he could bring his own team a ring?

More importantly..how would it affect them? The thought of giving up LeBron--giving up their _thing_ \--made his stomach drop. If it was true, would it stop him from running over the next time LeBron hit him up? Would he choose his teammates over LeBron?

Long after their plane touched down in Cali, Steph was haunted by the realization that he couldn't automatically say _yes_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! : D
> 
> SO I know it's been two long weeks since I've updated--but I'm back again, like an annoying little mosquito buzzing around your head! 
> 
> As always, I've been totally blown away by how many people are reading! It's crazy that it's coming so close to the end already! I estimate perhaps 3-4 more chapters before this story is done and my little series ends! 
> 
> BUT--I've had such a blast writing this shit for you guys that I've already come up with a plot line for a new story after this one @_@ What even is my life? 
> 
> Anyways, as always I so dearly hope that everyone enjoys this chapter! Also, please enjoy this meme that makes me LOL every time I see it:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> LOL @ LeBron's face xD

It took Steph until the next night to work up the nerve to text LeBron.

He lay in bed, freshly showered, one arm propped behind his head as he stared at his phone. It occurred to him that he'd never texted LeBron first; the other man had always been the one to reach out to him. For some reason he almost felt nervous.

Scowling at himself, he quickly tapped out a message. Thumb hovering over the 'send' button, he hesitated for only a moment before pressing down. 

_hows it going?_

Sighing out a long breath, he held his phone against his chest and let his eyes settle closed. 

It had been a long two days. With Draymond being suspended for tomorrow night's game, Kerr had been forced to change their strategy. The turn of events had left him more short-tempered than usual, barking out orders and threats in the same breath as they ran through plays at the Oracle. 

Worse was the press conference that had followed that afternoon. Predictably they'd jumped right to questioning him about the altercation between Draymond and LeBron that had led to his teammate's suspension. Steph had responded as blandly as possible, refusing to comment on what had happened with the excuse that he hadn't seen the entire thing go down, and adding that either way they'd be fighting to win the next game for Draymond.

Klay, on the other hand, hadn't held back. Steph had sat, fists clenched tightly on his lap under the table as his teammate ran off at the mouth about LeBron. He'd tried his best to keep his expression neutral for the cameras as Klay said how "shocked" he was that LeBron had taken Draymond's words so personally. When he explained that it was a "man's game" and that whatever was said on the court should stay on the court, Steph was tensing so hard his shoulders were up by his ears. By the time Klay finished waxing poetry about how LeBron's "feelings got hurt", and that LeBron had "maybe" tried to bait Draymond, Steph was openly cringing, silently praying for a hole to open up underneath the podium and swallow them all whole.

He confronted Klay after the interview, but his friend had shrugged him off.

"I didn't say anything that ain't true," he'd said indifferently.

"You pretty much called him a bitch!" Steph exclaimed, resisting the urge to reach out and strangle his friend. 

But Klay had just given him a goofy grin, unconcerned. "It's like I said. Nothing that ain't true."

By the time Steph had eaten dinner and returned home for the night, LeBron's press conference had already hit the web. Steph had watched with a combination of dread and anticipation, knowing that the blood-thirsty reporters would be asking about Klay's comments, hoping for a public feud. LeBron had only shrugged it off, saying he was going to take the high road instead of responding.

But something about the way he laughed and shook his head when the reporter informed him of Klay's comments made Steph feel uneasy. Despite his easy words, it was obvious from body language alone that LeBron was beyond pissed at Klay calling him out so publicly. He had a feeling that the other man wasn't taking the whole thing as coolly as he pretended.

Which was why Steph had decided to text him. He wanted to put his fears about the Draymond situation to rest--while at the same time gauging how upset LeBron really was by Klay's comments.

As he waited for LeBron to respond, his thoughts drifted back to their hookup before game 4.

The kiss had taken him completely by surprise. Steph had given up on ever kissing the other player after his several attempts were rebuffed. He'd brushed off his disappointment, refusing to examine the issue too closely. He'd hardly imagined that LeBron would be the one to initiate. Even now the thought of it made his heart flutter. 

For long minutes he lay there, caught up in the memories, his phone lying still on his chest. After what seemed like forever he reopened his eyes, glancing down at the screen with a frown. 30 minutes had passed, and still no response.

Steph bit at his lower lip, considering. What if LeBron was so pissed off by Klay's comments that he wasn't going to bother answering? After all, Steph had been right up there on stage next to Klay when he'd pretty much called LeBron a bitch in front of the entire world. Maybe he thought Steph agreed with his friend's comments?

Distressed by the thought, he quickly pulled up the chat window and typed out another message.

_im sorry about all the shit klay said today_

Five more minutes passed--during which Steph stared blankly at the screen--and still nothing. Unsure, he added:

_just so you know, i dont agree with what he said. youre not mad are you?_

This time, it only took a little over a minute for his phone to vibrate, the screen lighting up with a response. Anxiously, Steph swiped it open.

_i was at the gym. you a needy little bitch aint you_

Steph felt his face flush, hunching his shoulders and glancing around the room as if someone were there to see it. As always, just one sentence from LeBron was enough to make him feel like a stupid teenager. 

Ignoring the insult, Steph responded. _my bad. just thought you might be upset_

The reply popped up quickly. _i couldnt give a shit less what your bitch-ass friend thinks. he should count his rings before he starts running his mouth_

Jaw clenched, Steph stared at the screen, debating. Sure, Klay had said some..questionable things, but did LeBron really have to go there? After all, Steph had the same number of rings. 

Tersely, he replied: _cmon. hes just frustrated_

Hesitating for a moment, he added: _a lot of the guys think you got the league to suspend dray on purpose_

_your teammates a piece of shit. he dont need anyones help destroying himself_

It was dismissive, but not exactly a denial. Before Steph could come up with a reply a new text popped up.

_not surprised theyre blaming me. easier than admitting your team aint shit_

Steph slowly sat up in his bed, scowling down at the screen in disbelief. 

_really? yet we still managed to kick your teams ass last season_. It was bratty, maybe, but he was too irritated to care. 

_maybe you got the league to help you win_. Steph could read the mocking even through the screen.

_funny. whats it going to take for you to admit we're good? when we win the championship again tomorrow?_

_there you go again with that lack of humility. you didnt learn your lesson last time?_

Flushing once again, Steph ignored the reference to that particular "lesson" LeBron had decided to teach him. _its not about humility. its reality. we up 3 over your 1. your teams finished and you know it_

For several minutes his phone was silent. He was almost convinced that LeBron had simply decided not to bother with the argument anymore when his phone buzzed and a huge wall of text popped up on screen.

_like i said..you think cuz you had a few good seasons + the league is kissing your ass that no one can touch you. so your teammates run their mouths acting like its already a done deal. but i got news for you boy. i been in the game a lot longer than you have and you better learn real fuckin quick that it aint over til its over. so i wont say you guys are the shit cuz to me you aint shit. your boy klay is right..its a mans game and your team is just a bunch of whiny punk-ass kids_

Steph gaped at the screen, speechless. Once again LeBron was dismissing his entire team, even despite everything they'd accomplished. Once again LeBron effortlessly and mercilessly cut him down like it was nothing. Klay's words of warning suddenly sprang back to the forefront of his mind, sharp and bitter.

_he ain't afraid to knock you down to bring himself up. think about it_

Slowly, still feeling vaguely gutted, he tapped out a response.

_wow. youre such a fuckin hypocrite. youre always talking shit. and youre always calling me a bitch_

_youre damn fuckin right. cuz youre my bitch. in fact why dont you bring your ass over here right now? my dick needs sucked_

Steph hated the way his stomach flipped, just reading the possessive words. _my bitch_. It shouldn't give him a rush of pleasure, straight to his groin; shouldn't make him feel warm all over. He hated how just the mention of getting on his knees for the other man made his nerves light up like they were on fire. 

But LeBron had just insulted him, Klay, and his entire team, as carelessly as someone stepping on an ant. And he still wanted Steph to run over just so he could get off. 

For once, Steph wasn't about to just roll over like a good little boy.

_why dont you go fuck yourself instead. or better yet..go fuck irving_

_kyrie? the fuck that supposed to mean_

Jaw tight, Steph tapped out: _i see how hes always looking at you. you let him hang all over you_

The response was swift. _you my wife or what? apparently i havent made it clear. you belong to me, not the other way around. so bring your ass here so i can give you a fuckin reminder_

Heart pounding, Steph forced himself to stick to his guns. _you wanna trash my whole team but still have me come by? nah man. i dont need that shit. ill see you on the court_

He threw his phone down next to him on his bed, flopping back down against his pillows and staring up at the ceiling. Annoyingly he felt a little sweaty, his limbs tingling with nerves. It was the first time he'd actually stood his ground against the other man, and it was terrifying. He had a feeling he'd just pissed the other player off big time--maybe even more than Draymond or Klay had.

When his phone went off again his heart jumped into his throat, but Steph ignored it, flipping over onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut and trying desperately to clear his mind.

An hour later he was still awake, and he grabbed for his phone, unable to resist the temptation any longer.

_you trying to act all tough..thats cute. we both know you need it. lets see how long you can last_

 

\----

 

The stakes were high for game five: both teams knew it could be the last. By the end of the night, the Cavs would either return to Cleveland with their heads held high, or with their tails between their legs. 

Their fans were doing their best to make sure it was the latter. Incensed by Draymond's suspension, many of them had shown up with signs mocking LeBron. Some of them had even shown up outside the hotel the Cavaliers were staying at just to harass the Cleveland team before the game.

As a result, the mood at the Oracle was tense and uneasy from the start. Still, the beginning of the game had gone well for them: Klay had scored 26 points just in the first half. But their game had definitely suffered without Draymond. Steph had nearly lost track of how many times he'd been shoved around by LeBron, who seemed hell-bent on shadowing his every move. On one memorable occasion he'd pressed nearly flush against Steph's back, arms coming around him to grab for the ball, and the shock of it had made Steph fumble the ball away out of bounds.

After the whistle Steph turned to shoot him a glare, but LeBron only quirked a brow at him before turning to re-join his team. 

By halftime Steph was sore, bruised, and agitated, despite their lead. Even his bad knee was acting up, aching faintly in protest as he dragged himself off to the locker room. Once seated on the bench, he received an impromptu treatment from a silent Tyrell as they all listened to Kerr's mid-game strategy talk.

"Alright guys--decent start out there, but we've gotta keep it up," the coach said, running a hand through his blonde hair, his face lined with strain. "I don't know about you guys, but I don't want to go back to Cleveland. Let's finish this tonight."

But the Cavs weren't prepared to go home to a bunch of disappointed fans. To everyone's surprise they came out swinging in the second half, LeBron and Irving driving easily to the basket without Draymond there to stop them and Bogut benched for a hurt knee. They were unstoppable, quickly racking up the points, and suddenly the heat was back on as their team scrambled to keep ahead.

At one point Klay managed to knock the ball loose from Irving's hold and sent it skittering towards out of bounds, and Steph dove for it, ignoring his pain. But Irving leapt for it at the same time, and they both got hold of it. Soon they were tangled up together on the floor, Irving laying half on top of him as he tried to yank the ball from Steph's death grip. 

Just seeing Irving's cute face up close was enough to make a surge of anger run through him. "Get off me!" he hissed, digging his knee into the other man's gut in an attempt to pry the Cleveland player off of him. 

Irving only grunted, face twisted in concentration, refusing to loosen his hold. 

The whistle sounded, and Irving reluctantly let go and eased off of him. Scowling, Steph sat up slowly, tossing the ball to the beckoning ref. LeBron appeared, offering Irving a hand, and the smaller man took it without hesitation. LeBron pulled him effortlessly to his feet, his eyes meeting Steph's over Irving's head. Before he could even decipher the other man's expression LeBron was turning away, leaving Steph feeling cold all over. 

A sudden hand wagging in his face brought him back to the moment. "Hello?? Anyone in there??"

Rolling his eyes, Steph took the proffered hand, and Klay tugged him to his feet, slapping him on the back with his opposite hand. "Good try, man. Irving's pretty tough for such a little guy."

The sudden resurgence of LeBron and Irving rattled them, and with no Draymond there was no one to stop them. All too soon everyone could only watch helplessly as the game came to an end in a way that no one had expected: 112 to 97 Cavs. 

The fans looked stunned, murmuring quietly to each other, their drinks and signs forgotten. Kerr, who had spent the last few minutes on the sidelines with hands on hips and shaking his head in disbelief, had already left the floor. The rest of the team was solemn as they returned to the locker room; even Klay seemed to have nothing to say. 

They were going back to Cleveland.

 

\----

 

"Another tonic," he said, and the bartender nodded once, turning away to go fix the drink. 

Klay looked up from his phone, arching a brow at him. "Don't you think you should slow down?"

"I'm fi-" Steph half-burped, half-hiccuped, ignoring the way Klay's eyes narrowed. "I'm fine, bro. Jesus. You, like, my mom or something?"

He pretended not to notice Klay's eye roll. "I'm just saying, man. We have to catch an early flight tomorrow back to Choke City."

Steph huffed, nodding at the bartender as she set down a new gin and tonic in front of him. He'd already had three and they hadn't even been there an hour and a half. "10 o' clock is not that early." He took a long swig, then groaned, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ugh, Cleveland..now I'm thinking about LeBron again. Thanks."

"Really?" Klay snorted, his attention already back on his phone. "You told me you were done with that shit, remember? Something about 'he's an asshole, fuck him?'"

Steph slumped in his seat and took another sip, his limbs heavy with drink. "He IS an asshole. But I still wanna fuck him." He paused, nodding at the half-empty beer near his friend's hand: still his first since they'd arrived at the Soho bar. "You better start drinking if you wanna catch up to me."

Klay shook his head, grabbing the bottle and taking a small swig. "Nah. Not really feeling it tonight. Besides, someone's gotta drive your drunk ass home."

"I'm not drunk," Steph pouted, still holding tight to his drink. But even as he said it he could feel the fire in his gut, and when he shifted on the uncomfortable stool a faint wave of dizziness washed over him.

"Drunk enough to start whining about LeBron again. I don't get it, man. What's so fucking great about the guy anyways?"

Stumped, Steph thought hard, which was becoming more and more difficult. Professionally, it was obvious: no one could deny that LeBron was a damn impressive player. Although Steph still felt good about his own career and his room to improve, he knew he'd never be able to match everything that LeBron had accomplished. 

Then there was his power, both in the sport and his personality; his basketball smarts; his wit, his mystery, the way he looked at Steph when it was just the two of them--

"He's sexy," he said aloud, and Klay groaned, but Steph was suddenly too consumed with thoughts of the other man to care. "I can't stop thinking about him, man. Maybe he ain't gonna win this year, but he definitely fucks me like a three-time champ--"

"Okay, point taken," Klay cut him off, looking slightly pained. "Fuck..I'm sure there's plenty of dudes who could, uh, take care of your needs. You don't need that guy."

But Steph barely heard him, his mind flashing back to last night, and how he'd told LeBron to go fuck himself. The thought made his stomach drop. Drunk or not, suddenly everything seemed clear as day. Yeah, maybe LeBron was an asshole who didn't think their team measured up, but Steph still didn't want their "thing" to be over. He didn't want LeBron to forget about him and turn to someone else--maybe Irving--and never touch him, or fuck him, or look at him that way ever again--

"I gotta text him," he blurted, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. 

"Oh, no you don't." Klay made a grab for it, wrenching it out of his shaky grip. "Nothing good has ever come from drunk-texting someone in the history of ever. Besides, I'm telling you, you don't fucking need that guy."

"I do!" Steph lunged for his phone, the stool wobbling precariously at the abrupt motion, but Klay had the height advantage, holding it high over his head out of reach. "Klay, you asshole! Gimme my fucking phone!"

"No. You can't be trusted with it." He planted his hand on Steph's chest, keeping him at arm's length.

"What are you, the fucking..fucking..beacon of responsibility or some shit?" Steph struggled against the hold, infuriated. "Last weekend you got so fucking drunk you puked all over yourself!"

Klay scowled, his cheeks heating faintly. "Maybe so. But at least I didn't drunk-text my ex." He pulled the phone in close and unlocked it with a swipe, his thumb moving over the screen at speed. "You wanna text him so bad...I'll do it for you."

"What are you-? Klay, quit it!" Steph tried to snatch the phone from his friend, but Klay jerked out of reach, still holding him back with a hand. 

"Let's see..'oh LeBron, I know I told you to shove it, but you looked so good in those red shorts tonight, I still wanna hop on that dick--"

"Klay!" With a roar, Steph finally managed to grab his phone, tearing it out of Klay's hand so hard he nearly flung it across the bar. Holding it close, he shot his teammate an evil look, turning slightly to shield access to it with his body, but Klay just rolled his eyes, not making any attempt to get it back.

Drunk as he was, one look at the screen was enough to make his mouth gape open. "Dude! You really fucking sent that!?"

Sure enough, there was a new message screen to LeBron with Klay's text at the top.

"What? No I didn't." Klay took a sip of his beer, brow furrowing.

"You did!" Angrily Steph shoved the phone in his face to show him.

"Geez, okay, I see it. You must've hit send when you grabbed it from me," he said, pushing the phone out of his face. To his credit he looked slightly guilty. "I told you it was a bad idea."

Seething, Steph slumped back over the bar, taking a long, angry swig of his drink. "Fuck you, man. Seriously, just, fuck you." He sat for a minute, the wheels in his head spinning sluggishly as he tried to think of what to do. There was no way he could say it hadn't really been him who'd sent the message; LeBron would be pissed if he found out Klay knew about them. 

Unable to come up with anything to make the situation better, he set his phone aside. Maybe LeBron wouldn't even look at it. After all--he'd told the other man to go fuck himself only a day prior. It was possible he might just ignore the text altogether. 

Steph wasn't sure which was worse. For long minutes he sipped on his tonic, staring blankly at the bar and half-listening to Klay ramble on about their next game. 

When his phone buzzed against the bar top he nearly jumped out of his skin, grabbing for it clumsily, his heart pounding in his chest.

_i thought you said you didnt need this shit?_

Steph glanced up almost guiltily, eyes flicking over to Klay, but his friend was still prattling on, oblivious.

_i was pissed off. im sorry_

He bit at his lip, hunching slightly against his discomfort at admitting he'd fucked up. Maybe LeBron was onto something with his whole "lack of humility" lecture. Apologizing definitely didn't come easy to him. 

_you lasted longer than i thought. but i knew youd be dragging your ass back for more soon_

The words reeked of smugness, but Steph was too drunk and horny to give a fuck.

_ive talked shit about your team too. i shouldnt have got so mad and said what i said_

_didnt you just tell me a few days ago that you were gonna be good?_

Steph flushed bright red, recalling instantly their last encounter, when he'd promised LeBron he would do as he was told. In the moment it had seemed like such an easy acquiescence, but it was so easy to forget, especially given his natural personality. Klay had once referred to him as 'bratty', and although he'd resented it, he had to grudgingly concede that the word wasn't entirely unapplicable.

Now, LeBron was definitely playing at irritated over his slip up, and Steph decided to roll over so he would get what he wanted faster.

_im sorry daddy. i fucked up. but i swear ill be good for you now_

Sober, he wouldn't have been able to send such a text without dying of embarrassment; but alcohol had made him bolder, and if he woke up tomorrow so sore he could barely move, it would have been totally worth it.

_cute. but you really pissed me off with that shit. i think your little bitch ass needs to be taught another lesson. you aint getting any dick again until i decide_

Steph groaned, tugging at his hair in frustration. This was not how it was supposed to go. He'd been hoping for an invite over to the other man's hotel--not another "lesson".

_cmon, please. let me make it up to you_

_i meant what i said. in the meantime maybe ill get kyrie to call me daddy_

Steph stared at the message, feeling as if he'd just been kicked in the stomach. In anger he'd told LeBron to go fuck Irving instead, silently hoping that LeBron would deny any chance of it ever happening. Just the thought of it was enough to make Steph feel sick.

 _you wouldnt really_ he sent back uncertainly. Suddenly he didn't feel much like drinking anymore.

_no? you said he hangs on me. i bet he'd do what hes told_

It was a blatant attempt to bait him, but it made a bitter taste rise up in his throat all the same. _do whatever you want_

_back to the pouty shit again. tell you what..if youre real good i might fuck you after next game_

Another text, right after that. _im out for tonight_

__Numbly, Steph set his phone aside, draining the rest of his drink and setting it back down on the bartop with a small clink._ _

__"You ready?" he interrupted Klay, who was still rambling._ _

__"Huh?" Klay blinked at him, glancing at Steph's empty glass. "It's still pretty early. I'm surprised you wanna head back already."_ _

__"Like you said..we got an early flight." He pulled out some cash and threw it on the bar top, suddenly wanting nothing more than to head back to his place and go straight to bed. "That should cover me. I'll be outside."_ _

__Once outside he loitered near the front of the bar as he waited for Klay, wishing for a cigarette though he hadn't smoked since he was a dumb teenager. Alcohol had dulled his senses, but the conversation had agitated him, sharp and aching as his bad knee. The message sent was crystal clear._ _

_you belong to me, not the other way around_

__On the drive back Klay attempted to engage him in conversation several times, but when Steph merely grunted in response he finally gave up, turning up the radio to drown out the heavy quiet of night. Steph stared out into the darkness beyond the window, mind blank, his hand curled tightly around the phone in his pocket--the closest he would get to LeBron tonight._ _

__

__\----_ _

__

__They were losing. Badly._ _

__It was nearly halftime, they were down by twenty points, and Steph had yet to make a single basket. He was beginning to feel desperate, lobbing the ball randomly at the hoop in the hopes of getting himself on the board._ _

__The Cavs fans were jeering and laughing, drunk and gleeful at their expense, but it was his teammates' reactions that weighed heavily on him. Each time he missed he could feel their glaring disapproval, could practically hear them wondering when exactly the "season MVP" was going to show up to help them out. For his own sanity he'd avoided glancing anywhere in Kerr's direction, not eager to see the scorn written all over the coach's stern face._ _

__It didn't help that LeBron was having a phenomenal night, the kind that broke records and made headlines. He was seemingly everywhere on the court at once, yet had still been able to keep up his previous game's strategy of following Steph's every move._ _

__The constant proximity was driving him crazy with distraction. The refs were turning a blind eye, and LeBron was taking full advantage, shoving Steph around like a schoolyard bully. The frustration was getting to him, had turned his game sloppy and frantic. No matter how fast he ran he couldn't shake the other man._ _

__But then LeBron got caught up with Iggy, and Steph saw an opening. He darted near the 3-point line, and Klay passed him the ball, his brow creased with strain as he attempted to fight off Love. Steph caught it easily, and for a moment it seemed as if the roaring of the crowd intensified tenfold as he squared up, eyes locked onto the basket. Sweat beaded at his temple; his heart pounded wildly in his chest. This was his chance._ _

__He tensed, made to jump--_ _

__A force like a Mack truck slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs, the ball flying free from his hands as he went down hard on the polished floor. Dazedly, he glanced up to see LeBron standing over him, wearing a self-satisfied smirk._ _

__"Foul on number 30, Stephen Curry," the announcer's voice rang out above the wild cacophony of the crowd._ _

__"The fuck!" Steph sat up quickly, yanking out his mouth guard as he pushed off the floor and scrambled to his feet. He couldn't have heard right. The refs had been blatantly biased from the start, but there was no way they'd just called him for a foul._ _

__"You can't be serious!" he exclaimed to the nearby ref. He gestured wildly at LeBron, who was still smirking. "He just fucking shoved me on my ass! And you're gonna call me for the foul?!"_ _

__"You're gonna get another one if you keep it up," the ref warned._ _

__Steph could only gape at him. "How is this legal?" He glanced around for Kerr--for Klay or Iggy or anyone--but they were all standing at the end of the court, watching without protest._ _

__"What I tell you? You in my house now," LeBron spoke up haughtily, looking down his nose at Steph._ _

__Steph shook his head in disbelief. "That's fucking cheating! You can't just make up your own fucking rules so you can win!" He glanced over at the ref, who looked utterly unmoved by his tirade. "This is fucking bullshit, man! I'm gonna get the league to investigate this sh--"_ _

__"Hey."_ _

__Steph's mouth snapped shut as LeBron stepped in close, towering over him dauntingly._ _

__"What the fuck did I tell you about running your mouth?" he rumbled._ _

__"Er.." Steph took an uncertain step back, eyes flicking back to the ref, who no longer seemed to be listening. He looked back at LeBron, who was watching him with narrowed eyes, waiting for an answer._ _

__Hesitantly, he said, "I don't--"_ _

__"I asked you a fuckin' question. Didn't you just promise you were gonna be a good little bitch for me?"_ _

__"LeBron!" Steph hissed, glancing around nervously, his face flooding with heat. Was this some new way of humiliating him? The ref might no longer be paying attention, but they were still in front of millions of pairs of eyes; it wouldn't exactly be hard for someone to read their lips. What the fuck was LeBron thinking?_ _

__"I think you need another lesson," LeBron went on, ignoring him. He quirked a brow at Steph. "Get on your fucking knees."_ _

__"Dude--" Heart pounding wildly in his chest, Steph looked at him in horror, at a loss for words; but as if in slow motion he felt himself sink down until he was kneeling on the hard wooden floor, looking up into LeBron's smug face._ _

__"Maybe this one will stick with you," LeBron said, tangling a hand in his hair, his free hand going to the waistband of his shorts. "First I'm gonna fuck your mouth, and then we're gonna play the game so I can finish fucking your whole team."_ _

__"LeBron.." Steph tried feebly to break free from the hold, his heart shuttering in his rib cage like an injured bird. He was hyper-aware of the screaming of the crowd; of both teams watching, although he couldn't see their faces. Worst of all were the cameras that were trained on them, broadcasting the insanity on national television. LeBron had lost his fucking mind, and apparently he had too: he was rock hard in his uniform shorts, the fabric tented unmistakably._ _

__Moments later LeBron had his dick out, and to Steph's shock he was leaning forward and wrapping his mouth around it without further prompting, eyes trained upwards on LeBron's in the way he knew the older man liked._ _

__"Yeah, that's it," LeBron grunted, tightening his grip in Steph's hair as he began thrusting shallowly into his mouth. "Now everyone can see what a fucking bitch you are for me."_ _

__Steph blinked against tears, his whole body aflame as LeBron used him in front of the entire world. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of his team watching: Klay, slack-jawed and eyes bugged wide; Draymond, his face twisted in disgust; Iggy, his brow furrowed in bewilderment._ _

__Near the edge of the court was Irving, staring right at Steph, his expression unreadable._ _

__"Your friend Klay was right," LeBron said from above him, tapping at the stretched edge of his mouth. "This is a man's game."_ _

__He pulled out suddenly, wrenching Steph's head back, his hand moving furiously over his dick--_ _

__With a gasp Steph awoke, his heart racing in his chest, bed sheets twisted impossibly around him. His entire body felt sticky, and his dick throbbed almost painfully in his boxers, the fabric soaked through with sweat._ _

__Grimacing, Steph fought to kick off the sheets, his chest heaving as he reached blindly for his phone, still feeling half-drunk from his bar trip with Klay. It was only 3:30 am._ _

__With a groan he wiped the back of his hand across his damp forehead, staring up at the ceiling and willing his breath to calm._ _

__Unsteadily he climbed out of bed and padded over to the thermostat--it was on low cool. Switching it off, he made his way over to the windows on the far side of his bedroom, drawing the blinds and throwing them open to allow the cool air to filter in._ _

__Once back in bed he yanked off his boxers and dropped them to the floor, leaving his body entirely exposed to the night air. His heart rate was slowly returning to normal._ _

__The dream had been so fucking realistic, he could have sworn it was actually happening. Most fucked up of all though was his body's reaction, both in the dream and real life: his dick was still hard, straining upwards in search of stimulation._ _

__Annoyed, Steph grudgingly wrapped a hand around it and slowly began pumping, his thoughts going right to LeBron. What kind of fucked up hold did the other man have over him? The dream and its implications were beyond disturbing. Maybe he'd had a little too much gin after all._ _

__Shoving it from his mind, he focused his thoughts entirely on the Cavalier. LeBron had said they'd fuck after the next game, but his team was prepared to close out the Finals in game six and take the trophy again. Directly following their win, and for several weeks after, they'd be too busy celebrating, doing appearances, and giving interviews. There'd be no time to meet up. It was a thought that made his stomach sink._ _

__But after a few weeks, when they were both off for the summer, he'd have LeBron come and stay with him for an entire week, maybe two. They could fuck for hours, with no worries about practice or games or nosy teammates._ _

__Steph bit at his lower lip, tugging harder on his dick. He'd flaunt the trophy a bit, and LeBron would finally have no choice but to admit he--they--were the best._ _

_you guys deserved to win_ he'd murmur in Steph's ear, yanking him in close by the hips. _lemme congratulate you right_

LeBron would spin him around, dropping kisses along his spine as he worked Steph's pants off, leaving them to pool around his feet on the floor. 

_ask me for it_ he'd say, smacking Steph's ass hard enough to sting. 

_lebron, please--_

Another smack, harder. _you know what I wanna hear_

__"Please, daddy," Steph gasped aloud, and a second later he was gone, shooting all over his own hand._ _

__He let out a shuttered breath, allowing himself to melt bonelessly into the mattress. His limbs were suddenly heavy with fatigue, exhaustion licking at the edges of his mind._ _

__Wiping his hand off on his discarded boxers, he yanked the thin bed sheet over his body, curling an arm under his pillow and letting his eyes flutter shut. Instantly images from his dream assaulted his mind, but he did his best to shove them away, his brow furrowing from the effort._ _

__He had to get some sleep. 10 o'clock would come fast._ _


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -_-;;
> 
> So I actually uploaded this chapter last night..but when re-reading it on my phone this morning I realized that half the chapter was missing from the middle?! So I had to delete it and then wait until I got home from work to re-upload. Then I had to fight with Archive for about 15 minutes because it kept cutting it off (!!) but I think I finally got it! Luckily I don't think many people saw it yet!
> 
> SO, anyways, my original author's note: sorry for the long wait! I've been dealing with some medical issues and actually ended up in the hospital for a week a couple weeks ago. Then I took a week off to recover, and finally I managed to finish this chapter after my editor (aka boyfriend with an English degree) told me the original iteration was shit. 
> 
> Not in a mean way, but in an omg-he's-right way. Because originally it had some rough fuckin' (as per usual) and then afterwards it was too..sweet? Cuddly? And he made the point that, look. They're about to play the biggest game of their lives. The pressure is on. Steph is upset. There's no cuddling to be had here (although that shit's coming eventually, I promise!).
> 
> So I slashed the cuddling, rewrote the chapter..and what you have now is more of LeBron and Steph being mean to each other (and fucking of course) @_@ *shrug* 
> 
> I estimate a few more chapters..and then I'm not sure! Part of me wants to wait until the new season so I can get more inspiration, but at the same time I already have some more ideas! But either way I love writing for you guys so I'll have to continue! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me + this story! It means so much! ENJOY!
> 
> P.S. Did anyone see LeBron on Ellen a few weeks ago? She asked him about Steph and he said something nice like "he's a great player" and then he was like "But he's a fierce competitor though--don't be fooled by that smile!"
> 
> I was like omg he totally just called Steph a pretty twink in a roundabout way @_@ yassss

"You look like shit."

Steph slammed the locker door shut, glancing up to find Klay leaning against the locker next to him with arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable.

He rubbed tiredly at his eye with the back of his hand, his brow slightly scrunched. "Just tired," he lied. "These back-and-forth trips are rough."

It was partly true--the jet lag was a bitch, and Steph knew he wasn't the only one feeling it. But part of his exhaustion had a lot to do with lack of sleep. After his fucked up dream he'd laid awake the rest of the night, unable to drift off. The next day they'd jetted back to Cleveland, and he'd only managed a short, restless nap on the plane.

Since game six was the very next day Kerr had given them the day off. Steph had headed straight for his hotel room, dropped his bag on the floor and fell into bed. But thoughts of LeBron, his dream, and the upcoming battle that lay ahead of them gnawed at his mind, preventing him from finding any rest. Eventually he'd given up, joining Klay, Barnes and Iggy for dinner and drinks.

He'd turned in early, but it hadn't been until after two AM that he'd finally managed to fall asleep, and when he'd awoken at nine he felt barely rested at all. The day had passed quickly--muscle treatment, stretching, some light drills--and finally he'd arrived early at The Q for the pre-game interview with Kerr and Klay.

When his phone had buzzed in his pocket during the interview his heart had jumped into his throat, and he'd checked it discreetly under the table, hopeful it was LeBron inviting him for another pre-game hookup. But it was just his brother wishing him luck and passing along the well-wishes of their parents for that night's game.

The interview went smoothly enough, and all too soon he was decked out in full uniform, not participating in the other guys' pre-game chatting. His exhaustion had finally caught up with him, and Klay, perceptive when he wanted to be, had apparently noticed.

"I feel you," Klay said neutrally. He quirked a brow at Steph. "You sure that's all it is?"

Steph groaned, breaking eye contact as he began tucking in his jersey. "Don't start with that shit, man. I'm not in the mood."

"What? I didn't say anything yet," his friend said, raising his hands in surrender and adopting an innocent expression.

Steph shot him a look. "I know what you're trying to get at. And the answer is... don't worry about it. It ain't gonna affect my game, okay?"

Klay sighed, giving him a look of pity. "I know you, Steph. I know how you get in your own head sometimes. So for everyone's sake, I hope you're right." He patted Steph on the shoulder and started for the door. "Come on. Time to warm up."

"In a minute. Forgot to put my phone away." Steph turned back to his locker, allowing the annoyance to show on his face. It was bad enough that LeBron didn't believe in his abilities, but to have his best friend doubting him too? He hated to admit it, but it fucking hurt, more than a little.

As he dug his phone out of his pocket he couldn't help but glance at the screen, feeling a pang of disappointment even though he'd already known there would be no new texts.

A lot was riding on that night's game. Most importantly, of course, was the possibility of them reclaiming their title. But it could also mean the last time Steph would see LeBron for months. Despite his reassurance to Klay, it was a thought that had weighed heavily on him for the past few days.

Their "romance" had occupied so much of his thoughts for weeks--months--even though realistically it was probably just a short, meaningless fling to the other man. It could very well be that as soon as the Finals ended, their "thing" would too.

Steph set his phone inside the locker, his stomach clenching at the thought. He could imagine it all too clearly: a long, lonely summer; a few discreet, empty hookups with nameless men from the local bar, just to take the edge off. Scrolling through social media a couple times a week, on the off chance he'd catch a glimpse of LeBron to see what he was up to. And then next season they'd be right back to being nothing more than distant rivals who only crossed paths once every few months.

Letting out a shuddery breath, Steph turned and started for the door, face carefully guarded against his inner turmoil. There was no point in worrying about it. For now, he would focus all his energy on helping his team realize their ultimate goal--and a few weeks from now, when the celebrations died down and his life fell into a quiet summer routine, he would allow himself to feel the things that somehow only LeBron managed to make him feel.

 

 

The Cavs were giving them a run for their money.

Ironically, Steph was having his best performance of the Finals. He'd been hitting the threes, and he was feeling more on his game than he had in weeks. Still, they hadn't managed a lead. For every basket they scored, the Cavs seemed to make two more.

It didn't help that the refs were suddenly cracking down. Steph already had three fouls to his name, and the game wasn't even half over. He'd had to beg Kerr to keep him in, and the coach had reluctantly agreed, smart enough to know that they needed him badly: Bogut was still out, and Iggy's back was acting up again, evident by the way he grimaced every time he went for a shot.

The Cleveland team was taking full advantage of their shortcomings. LeBron had gone into permanent beast mode, driving to the basket with such inhuman force that all anyone could do was stand by and watch. It always made Steph a little breathless, watching him charge in and leap clean in the air, slamming the ball in the basket so hard that the whole hoop shook. Even if it weren't for his foul trouble, Steph sure as hell wasn't about to challenge him. He still had bruises from the last time LeBron had knocked him on his ass for getting in the way.

Soon enough it was halftime, and they were still trailing by ten. Steph joined the rest of the guys in the locker room, where a nervous energy hung heavily in the air. Although no one would admit it aloud, they were struggling much more than anyone had anticipated, and everyone was feeling the pressure. Steph shifted uneasily on the bench, remembering LeBron's criticism of their team's arrogance and how it would be their downfall. Right then it seemed eerily prophetic.

"Alright, guys," Kerr sighed out, ignoring the subdued mood. "We're playing decent ball--but they're doing it better. We've gotta play smarter this second half. That means no more fouls," he clarified, eyes cutting to Steph. "The refs are watching like hawks. So no stupid mistakes, okay? We're still in this. We can still close it out tonight."

But the Cavs weren't going to make it easy. The third quarter was a whirlwind of Irving's crazy shooting, LeBron's continued drives to the basket, and a better defense than the Cleveland team had showed all season. Steph's 3-pointers and Klay's supplemental shots weren't enough: the gap had widened to over twenty points, and on top of that he'd already picked up a fourth foul.

The frustration was setting in: Steph could tell by the looks on his teammates' faces, the unusual quiet on the bench. No one seemed to have an answer for the Cavs. Time was running out, and still the closest they'd managed to get all game was within ten points.

At the beginning of the fourth Irving once again had possession of the ball, and Steph went after him, determined to stop him from pulling any more threes. Surprisingly, he managed to snatch the ball from the quick-footed player; adrenaline pumping, he made a beeline towards the other end of the court, but the harsh sound of the whistle stopped him in his tracks.

"Foul on number 30, Stephen Curry. His fifth personal," the announcer's voice rang out above the cacophony of the crowd.

Steph felt his face split into a humorless grin--a defensive reflex--but he dropped it a second later, slamming the ball down on the floor with unnecessary force as irritation overtook him. From the sidelines Kerr was arguing passionately against the call, but the refs were unmoved, refusing to reconsider.

As the clock wound down, things began to get more frantic. Klay missed a shot; Iggy flubbed an easy layup, his face twisted in pain as he came down; Steph lost the ball on a steal from Irving, who turned it into another basket for the Cavs. Stomach in knots, and hyper-aware of the refs' eyes on him, Steph's game had turned sloppy, the threes no longer falling as they had earlier in the game.

With five minutes left they were down by thirteen, and Steph had the ball. LeBron was on him, game face engaged, but Steph was smaller and quicker, and he would use it to his advantage. Gritting his teeth, he slipped past the other man and drove straight up the middle, leaping into the air, his eye on the prize--

Like a goddamn drone LeBron swooped in behind him and slapped the ball away with one giant hand, effortlessly sending it spinning away from the basket.

Stunned, chest heaving with exertion, Steph turned just in time to see LeBron glancing at him over his shoulder, self-satisfied expression firmly in place.

"Who's the bitch now?" he mocked, eyes flicking dismissively over Steph as if he were nothing more than a kid on the playground.

_yeah, that's it. now everyone can see what a fucking bitch you are for me_

His dream came rushing back to him in perfect, vivid clarity, making his breath catch in his throat. Face hot, his skin prickling with heat, he could only watch as LeBron turned back towards his team and the screams and laughter of the adoring crowd.

Looking back, it was easy to pinpoint that moment as the catalyst for his fatal mistake. Once again he let LeBron rile him--and in the end he fell right into the other man's trap.

As Tristan Thompson made to throw the ball back into play a few minutes later, clearly aiming for LeBron, Steph saw his chance. He could still be the hero. Could still turn things around for his team ( _it ain't over til it's over_ ).

He could still prove himself to LeBron.

It probably wasn't surprising, as agitated as he was, that things turned out the way they did. He was too sloppy, too desperate, and he went in too hard: when he made to intercept Thompson's pass to LeBron he made full contact, catching the other man on the arm and wrist.

The feeling as the ref shouted out his sixth and final foul was like being submerged in ice water. For a moment he saw nothing, heard nothing past a sudden rushing in his ears. The sharpest of cold enveloped his entire body, filling his lungs, his stomach, his throat; shot down his spine and into the tips of each finger.

Then all at once the bubble of silence surrounding him popped, and the uproarious noise of the arena crashed over him like a violent wave. The ice water was gone, replaced with molten heat, and he became aware of someone screaming. It took him a moment to realize it was himself.

"That's bullshit, man! Fucking bullshit!" He advanced on the ref, voice catching on a lump in his throat. Horrifyingly, he felt tears stinging at his eyes. In a sudden fit of rage he yanked his mouth guard out and hurled it away from him as hard as he could. Someone nearby yelled something, but he was too enraged to notice.

"That's fucking bullshit and you know it! You fucking know it, you piece of shit!"

"Hey, hey, easy!" Klay appeared, wrapping a strong arm across his chest and yanking him backwards, while Livingston grabbed his left arm in a vice-like grip.

Grim-faced, the ref made a sharp signal in the air. "You're outta here!"

Steph gaped at him, his stomach plummeting to his toes. "That's bullshit! You son of a bitch!" He stumbled over his feet as his two teammates began dragging him bodily away.

"Enough, Steph! Enough! You just got yourself kicked out!" Klay growled. "You fucking idiot! Don't make it worse!"

"I can't believe it. I can't fucking believe it," Steph repeated blankly, shaking his head, his voice breaking at the end. He couldn't look at his teammates; couldn't bear to look at the Cavs and their smug faces, the cackling crowd, the sharp-eyed cameras. A sick feeling curled inside his gut as he thought of LeBron standing somewhere nearby, watching the entire display. He felt like he could throw up.

"You just hit this guy with your mouth guard!" a fan in the front row yelled at him as they passed by.

"My bad, dude, I'm sorry--" Steph croaked out, barely seeing him, nearly unable to hear anything over the pounding of blood in his ears.

"Come on, Steph, you gotta leave the floor." The assistant coach appeared suddenly by his side, grabbing onto his arm and yanking him towards the locker room.

Numbly Steph allowed himself to be pulled along, still shaking his head in disbelief. "They can't do this," he said in a small voice, his brow heavily creased. "This is bullshit, man."

"Come on," the older man repeated gruffly, tugging him along.

The walk back to the locker room was, perhaps, the most humiliating moment of his entire career. Steph struggled to keep his head up and face neutral for the cameras; tried his best to ignore the jeers of the crowd, the shouted insults, the "goodbye" song playing mockingly over the sound system.

Even once he was inside the sanctity of the locker room and the cameras had disappeared he felt raw and exposed, as if his skin had been peeled away, revealing his vulnerable insides to the scrutiny of the entire world. He could see the merciless headlines already; could already imagine the probing questions he was going to face in the post-game interview, the criticism on each and every sports show, the mocking of thousands of Cavs fans.

And LeBron--

"Fuck!" He slammed his fist into the nearest locker, ignoring the pain that jolted up his arm and into his shoulder. What was supposed to have been a night ending in epic celebration had instead somehow ended in the first ejection of his career, and with them backed tightly into a corner, their entire record-smashing season at stake.

Suddenly, the championship didn't seem quite so within reach.

 

 

  
Steph was having deja vu.

This time he was lurking in the parking lot of a penthouse some twenty minutes from The Q on the edge of the city. He'd turned off his lights and engine, rolling the windows down to let in the cool air and trying to find a measure of peace in the quiet of the night.

There had been no specific time given to him, yet still he waited out the minutes, reluctant to leave the cover of darkness. Although hours had passed since the game, shame still curled in his gut every time he thought back to his earlier humiliation.

After an emotionally draining post-game interview ( _"I just got caught up in the frustration of the moment,"_ _he explained, hands clenched in his lap, his eyes carefully trained on the table in front of him. "I apologized to the fan. I wasn't trying to hit nobody."_ ), he'd headed straight back to his hotel room, ignoring Klay's calls and texts. The last thing he wanted was to give his friend an opportunity to pull out the dreaded _I told you, man_. Especially when he already felt so low.

For several hours he'd lain there in silence, staring at the ceiling and wondering vaguely where it had all gone wrong. When exactly the tables had turned, and the Finals had changed from a sure thing to a complete uncertainty.

And then the man himself--the one who Steph was rapidly starting to believe was somehow, some way, orchestrating everything like some kind of shady fucking basketball Illuminati--had texted him an address, casual-as-you-please, and asked (told) him to come by. As if Steph's entire world had not just been flipped on its axis only a few hours previous--ironically thanks to a foul on LeBron.

But Steph had immediately gotten up and re-dressed, giving himself a quick check in the mirror before heading for his car, the address already typed into his GPS. He was past the point of fighting it; of pretending that he had any sort of control over anything at all.

Right then, he could admit that maybe he wanted someone else to take control.

Steph switched off the rental and got out, making his way to the nondescript door on the side of the building. There was a security keypad on it, but LeBron had texted over the 6-digit code: seconds later he was stepping inside a small room, which contained nothing but the smooth, sleek door of an elevator.

Up he went to the very top floor, where he was confronted with another door. Gently, he rapped on it twice and waited, but there was no sound from inside. Instinctively he tried the knob, surprised to find it unlocked.

It was a huge, open space, dark except for the blue-gray moonlight streaming in from the floor to ceiling windows on the far wall, overlooking an admittedly impressive view of the city. A giant black leather sectional was situated in front of an enormous flat screen, hung high on the wall; in front of it sat a long marbled coffee table, where a few flickering candles sat, casting a faint yellow glow.

Brow furrowing, Steph glanced over to the right towards a sleek kitchen and dining area; then to the left, where a spiral staircase led up to an open, shadowed loft. Nothing.

Unsure, he reached for the phone in his pocket. Maybe he should try calling--

"You took your sweet-ass time getting here. Was starting to think you wasn't gonna show."

"Shit!" Steph whirled around, grabbing at his chest as his heart threatened to reenact the scene from _Alien_. "What the fuck, man! You trying to give me a fucking heart attack?!"

He could barely see LeBron in the darkened room, but he could definitely feel him: the other player was practically standing on top of him, the familiar heat rolling off him in waves. His teeth caught the moonlight as he grinned.

"Just checking your defense. But I guess it's still shit."

Seething, his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest, Steph drew himself up as tall as he could--which was, admittedly, still nowhere near the other man's height. "Ha-ha. Real fucking clever."

LeBron hummed non-commitally, stepping past him towards the sofa. As he neared the candlelight he came more into focus: he was dressed only in a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants, the tops of his boxers showing slightly above the waist. Steph swallowed, allowing his eyes to flick over the strong, muscled back and down to the trim, tapered waist. Suddenly his racing heart had nothing to do with being startled.

"Still a little upset from the game, huh," LeBron commented, oblivious to his scrutiny. He glanced over his shoulder at Steph, eerily similar to after his epic block. "I guess it ain't surprising. You got your feelings hurt enough to throw a little bitch-ass tantrum in front of everyone."

Steph was grateful for the darkness as he felt his cheeks flush. "Those refs had it out for me since the beginning. At least half those fouls were complete made-up bullshit."

"Of course. Poor Stephen Curry's always the victim." LeBron perched casually on the end of the sofa, quirking a brow at him. "Did it occur to you that maybe the refs just had enough of letting you get away with your usual shit?"

He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It _occurred to me_ that the refs were doing their best to tilt things in your team's favor."

"Ohh. So now you buying into that shit about how I control the league." LeBron looked amused.

"Well, what am I supposed to think!" Steph tugged on his hair in frustration. "First Draymond gets suspended--"

"Cause he's a piece of shit," LeBron interuppted patiently, crossing his bulging arms over his chest. "We went over this already."

Steph ignored him, his anger (and voice) rising by the second. "Then tonight, with all those bullshit fouls--"

"Your own fault."

"Then getting me thrown out of the fucking game--"

"Enough." LeBron stood in one smooth movement, all traces of amusement gone. "Lemme make this easy for you. Your team's been writing checks your asses can't cash, and instead of buckling down and focusing on winning the next game, you'd rather blame your shitty turnaround on someone else--especially 'cuz you're no longer even sure you can pull it off." He raised a haughty brow at Steph. "That about sum it up?"

The casual dismissal set him off like a powder keg. The frustration of their lost games, the pressure from the media and the fans, the shame and humiliation of being thrown out of the game--all of it came rushing back, nearly overwhelming him with the force of it.

"Fuck you! You're always so goddamn smug!" He stepped in close until they were nearly touching, shoving at LeBron's chest, but he might as well have been pushing against a brick wall for all the effect it had. "You said yourself it ain't over til it's over! Or does that only apply to your shitty fucking team?!"

He shoved again, harder, this time managing to jostle the other man the tiniest bit, nearly blinded by the rage coursing through him. "Why can't you just fucking--"

A sudden vice grip caught his wrist and yanked it high in the air, forcing him onto his toes, his t-shirt riding up to bare the flat expanse of his stomach.

Steph gritted his teeth, struggling to break free. "Shit! Let go-"

He yelped as LeBron yanked him forward and shoved him down over the arm of the couch, twisting his arm tightly behind him, his face smashing into the thick leather. "LeBron--hey!"

His pants and boxers were pulled down in one harsh tug, leaving him completely bare to the cool air. Panic seized his stomach. "LeBron!"

"You fucking serious with this shit right now, bitch?" A hand cracked down on his ass so hard that Steph nearly choked on his next breath, tears immediately springing to his eyes. Blood rushed southward; his dick twitched faintly where it was trapped against the couch.

"You wanna try to put your goddamn hands on me? Motherfucker I could rip your ass in half!"

Another smack, in the same exact spot. Steph groaned, heat and endorphins flooding his bloodstream. "E-eat shit--"

SMACK--right at the junction where his ass met his thigh. "The fuck you say?"

"I-I said, ea-"

A smack so forceful that it snatched the breath from his lungs completely, sending him rocking forward onto the tips of his shoes. He tried to use his free hand for leverage to right himself, but LeBron grabbed hold of it and yanked it behind him, securing both of his wrists at the base of his spine with a single hand.

"How the fuck you gonna come up in here trying to start shit? After you threw a fucking hissy fit on fucking national TV? You must be outta your goddamn mind!"

"You're always trying to piss me off!" Steph struggled under the hold like a fish in a barrel, fire raging in his gut. He suddenly hated the other player; hated him for the distraction he'd caused, the uncertainty, the frustration and irritation and everything in between. "It's all your fucking fault! You ain't done nothing but fuck up my game since--since--"

He gasped as LeBron struck him again, the sensitive skin of his ass already throbbing. "But you keep running back for more. You a pathetic little bitch who ain't even fit to lick my dirty-ass fucking shoes."

"If I'm so fucking pathetic then how come you keep sticking your dick in me?" Steph spat out against the leather, still wriggling against his bound wrists, his entire body tense in anticipation of another strike.

"'Cause I fucking own you." His bare legs were shoved roughly apart, leaving him obscenely splayed. There came the distinctive sound of spitting--something wet splattering against his hole. "I own you, your entire fucking team, and on Monday I'mma own two more fucking rings than you."

Steph's stomach plummeted; a mixture of resentment and dirty, shameful arousal. Face bright red, he lifted his head up from the leather. "Go to he--"

LeBron shoved into him in one smooth thrust, smothering his acidic words. Steph screamed, body instinctively jerking forward in an attempt to escape the mind-numbing pain, but a strong arm wound tightly around his chest, yanking him back against the other man's hips.

"Why you running? This is what you came for, ain't it?" The other player pulled all the way out, only to shove roughly back in, not even bothering to let him adjust.

"I ain't running," Steph groaned, struggling to breathe through the pain that lit up his every nerve. "I ain't afraid of you." Even to his own ears it sounded shaky.

He was caught off guard by the stinging slap to the side of his thigh. "You trying to convince me or yourself?" LeBron began rocking brutally into him, the force of it knocking him forward until the tips of his shoes barely brushed the floor. "If you couldn't even close out a 3-1 lead, how you think you gonna hold up under pressure on game seven?"

Steph gritted his teeth against the ache of his bent arms, the sharp, gut-wrenching pain. He couldn't think, couldn't feel, reduced to nothing but the sensation of being split right up the center and his hard dick rubbing maddeningly against the couch with each body-wracking thrust.

"Me? They don't call this Choke City for nothin'--ah!"

He cried out as LeBron suddenly pulled out and yanked him up off the couch by his wrists, spinning him around. He had just enough time to catch a glimpse of the dark look on the other man's face before a hand on the back of his neck forced his head down. "I'll take your ass to Choke City."

Steph gagged around the other player's dick, reflexively trying to pull away, but the hand on his neck held him him in place. Tears pooled in his eyes once more as he tried to breathe through his nose, his throat clicking against the sudden intruder.

"Too much?" LeBron pulled him off, forcing his head back so their eyes met. His expression was cool. "Tell me to stop and I will." The words were slightly mocking; a challenge.

Defiance flared in his stomach. "Fuck you."

He made a small noise as LeBron shoved his head back down. "That's what I thought."

For long minutes the other man held him there, fucking roughly into his mouth, and Steph could only hold on, determined not to give in. His neck screamed out at the awkward bent angle; spit and tears soaked his face. A thumb dug roughly into the aching muscle of his jaw.

"You had enough?"

Steph made a noise in his throat, brows knitting together in a scowl. His mouth felt ready to split open, and his head swam from lack of breath, but he stayed silent, refusing to make the call.

Luckily, LeBron made the decision for him. He released his hold and pulled out, tugging him upright again. Steph heaved out a breath, licking at his swollen lips, his eyelashes spiked with tears. Before he could react the other man shoved him backwards, and Steph lost his balance, falling ass-first over the arm of the sofa. LeBron tugged his sweats off over his shoes, tossing them aside, before grabbing hold of his ankles and yanking them high above his head.

He gasped as LeBron shoved back inside him, his hole spasming as it was re-speared. The other man leaned over him, hands sliding down to his thighs and holding them down and open as he fell right back into a pounding rhythm.

"Still with me, champ?" he asked, quirking an arrogant brow. Sweat beaded at his temple, but he was barely winded.

Steph shot him a fierce scowl. The sharp pain had gone, but it still hurt, like pressing on a bruise. "I told you--fuck!"

LeBron shoved his legs back higher, his hips rising even further off the couch, and the shift in angle somehow let him go even deeper, hammering against Steph's prostate with each thrust. He moaned, heat flooding his stomach, reaching up to grip blindly at the thick biceps. He felt like he could feel the other man in his fucking kidneys; like he was being ripped in half, each powerful thrust driving the air from his lungs and reducing him to choked half-gasps.

"I didn't think nothing could feel better than watching you get thrown off the court." LeBron leaned leaned down more heavily on him until their faces were inches apart, nearly smothering him with his bulk, his hips never faltering. "But I can't wait to see your face when I yank that fucking trophy right out from under your punk-ass."

"It ain't gonna happen," Steph managed, tugging rapidly on his dick, fingers on his free hand digging roughly into the dark skin of the other man's arm. He clenched down around the other man's dick, getting a perverse sort of thrill at the way his ass twinged in protest. There was still a slight edge of pain, but it was quickly being replaced with the sweet burn that curled low in his pelvis and reverberated up his spine. "You got way more to lose than us. You the one who can't handle the pressure, not me."

"Yeah, I seen how you handle pressure at the game tonight."

Steph's face burned, unsure if he wanted to pull the other man closer or shove him away. The pleasure was building in his gut like a geyser; he was so close.

"I ain't gonna last much longer," he said, hand still moving furiously over his dick, eyes squeezing tightly shut.

"Already?" LeBron leaned in, sinking his teeth into the spot where his neck met his jaw. "You really are a fucking slut for my dick, ain't you?"

That was all it took. With a gasp Steph lost it, arching up against the strong, sweat-slicked chest, cumming so hard his entire body shook.

LeBron grunted, lifting back up, hands sliding up to grip either side of his stomach. Steph only managed a breathless sound around the bruising grip, struggling to keep his legs spread, his abs beginning to scream out at being bent nearly in half. Now that he'd cum it was starting to hurt again, his ass twinging with each thrust, but the other man showed no signs of slowing down. He tried to squirm away, but the grip on his stomach tightened further.

"You ain't goin' nowhere. We ain't done til I'm satisfied."

"LeBron.." Steph groaned as the other player pounded brutally against his bruised prostate, milking a few more drops of cum from his dick.

"I thought you was a fucking champion? You can take it."

Steph panted out a breath, head lolling to the side, his jaw tightly clenched. All of the anger had been fucked out of him, and now he felt heavy-limbed and barely lucid, his entire body over-sensitive like an exposed nerve.

"It fucking hurts," he managed, reaching up to dig his fingers into the other man's arms. "Please.."

"Please what?" The thrusts were becoming more erratic, taking on the jerky, uneven quality that meant he was close.

Steph met the dark eyes, brow heavily creased. "Please, Daddy."

With a growl LeBron shoved in a final time, and Steph groaned as he felt his hole flood with warmth. He let out a heavy breath as LeBron collapsed forward onto him, nearly crushing him under his mass, his broad chest heaving from exertion.

For several minutes they stayed that way, neither of them saying a word, the euphoria from his release still vibrating through his entire body and leaving his mind blissfully blank.

Finally LeBron shifted, and Steph struggled against his stab of disappointment as the other man slowly lifted up off him. He couldn't contain a grimace as LeBron slid out of him, his ass throbbing around the sudden emptiness. The other man stood, his face carefully neutral in the flickers of candlelight, and Steph felt his stomach shift as tension cloaked the room once more.

He slowly lowered his legs, cringing at the way the muscles seized. He took stock of his body: stiff spine, sore low back, dark bruises already blooming on his hips. His mouth felt swollen, he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, and he was pretty sure he was going to have a mark on his neck where the other man had bit him. Most noticeably, though, was the dull pain in his pelvis that flooded his entire body at the slightest movement.

He glanced back up just in time to get wapped in the face with his own sweatpants. Scowling, he yanked them off, looking up to see LeBron already redressed in his boxers and leaning down to grab his own pair of pants from the floor. "You better not make a fucking mess all over my couch," he rumbled.

Steph felt his jaw clench at the cavalier remark. With an incredible amount of effort he managed to come to sitting, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. "I'll do my fucking best," he gritted out, pants hanging loosely from his grip.

LeBron straightened, giving him a pointed look. "Good to hear. Hope you keep the same attitude on Monday."

He turned and headed for the kitchen--a clear dismissal--and Steph tore his gaze away, angrily pulling on his pants. He regretted coming there at all; letting the other man use him and toss him out afterwards, time after fucking time. He should be focusing on game seven--on his teammates, their fans, the trophy that dangled just out of reach.

He should be stronger against LeBron James.

"Oh--Curry?"

Warily Steph glanced over as he came to his feet, feeling cold all over, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get as far away from the other man as he could.

LeBron's expression was solemn. "Don't ever put your hands on me again."

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how much do you guys hate me??
> 
> I come bearing plenty of excuses! I mean, to be fair, in between the last time I updated and now, I've been through 2 surgeries and one hospitalization. Basically, I've had a rough time for the past year or so. And thanks to all that fun stuff I fell into a depression, lost all my inspiration and acquired chronic writer's block, etc. etc. 
> 
> Honestly there were times when I wanted to just completely give up on this story. I even thought of just taking it down off the website because I hated it so much..because it was just sitting there, unfinished, mocking me. Even though I was so close to finishing chapter nine, I couldn't seem to tie it all together.
> 
> But I've been watching this year's Playoffs (obviously) and when it became clear it was going to be Cavs vs Warriors for the third year in the row, I said to myself, 'you know what, you piece of shit? You left all of these people hanging for months and months and now you're thinking of just never finishing this shit just because it's hard? That's not the heart of a fucking champion. A fucking champion wouldn't abandon their filthy smut-fic, beloved by so many! Are you a champion or not?!'
> 
> So I made myself a promise. I promised myself I would finish this story before the end of this year's Finals, where Cleveland and Golden State meet again for the third year in a row. So here is the first part of that promise (chapter nine) and the final chapter, number ten, which I swear I have already started, will be forthcoming soon. 
> 
> In all seriousness, I want to give a giant THANK YOU to everyone who's been a fan of this story. I've said it before but I truly never expected this many people to read my story and I'm always blown away by the support, especially how many people keep asking me to finish it! I realized I couldn't live with myself if I left this story unfinished forever, because I truly do love this series and want to finish it not only for you guys but for myself!
> 
> So please enjoy this (long awaited) chapter as you prepare for Cavs Vs Warriors Part Three..and be prepared for lots of angst and feels..but, as always, a happy ending.
> 
>  ETA: I've been thinking..what would you guys think about another story after this? To be honest I had kind of figured that this story would be my last fic in this particular universe..but I feel like this past season (Warriors picking up Durant, Cavs having their struggles, and ultimately the Finals turning into another showdown between Cleveland + Golden State) could lend itself to a whole other story. I mean after that crazy game in January when the Warriors beat the snot outta Cleveland I literally went home and wrote out a quick, smutty chapter for another story that doesn't even exist yet because I was so inspired LOL.
> 
> So what do you think? Would another story be overkill and I should just wrap it up after this one and move onto something else, or do you think there could be a whole other story with these two in this crazy universe I've built (one that doesn't totally suck)??
> 
> \----------------

The next morning he arrived at the airport as late as possible to avoid conversation with the other guys, pride still in tatters and ego still thoroughly bruised. Predictably Klay sought him out even before take off, cornering him in the seat he'd snagged near the front of the plane.

"Glad to see you're still alive," his friend said dryly, hovering in the aisle to cut off any chance of escape. "I was starting to wonder."

"Klay.." Steph trailed off, his defensiveness already rising. He was already in a shitty mood--the last thing he needed was a self-righteous lecture.

"I didn't see you at the hotel when we got back from the restaurant. You must've been out pretty late." It was more of an accusation than an observation, and Klay's flat expression said he already knew exactly where Steph had been. 

Steph shot him a poisonous look, glancing around to see if any of the other guys were looking their way, but luckily no one was paying them any attention. 

"It's none of your fucking business," he hissed, jamming his headphones on over his ears in a not-so-subtle dismissal, but Klay yanked them off his head with a scowl. Steph glared back warily. Apparently he wasn't going to be able to avoid this confrontation. 

"The hell it ain't. When my best friend is avoiding me and acting like a fucking idiot--throwing shit at fans and getting thrown outta games--then it is my business." Klay dropped the headphones into Steph's lap, his expression softening to something like pity. "It's because of him, isn't it? And you still went to see him after what happened last night." His voice was low, no louder than a murmur, but still Steph felt his spine go rigid, entirely too aware of the fact that they weren't alone. 

Jaw clenched, he looked away, squeezing the headphones so tightly his fingers ached. "So what? Didn't you tell me a few months ago that if he--if this--was what I wanted, then I should go for it? That you'd support me no matter what?"

He couldn't completely disguise the bitterness from his voice. The truth was it hurt more than he wanted to admit that his best friend had stopped supporting his decision when he already felt so torn up about it all. 

Klay let out a breath, and this time he was the one who broke their gaze, looking slightly sheepish. "Yeah, I did. But that was before things started to go to shit in the Finals..and that bullshit with Draymond..Fuck, man, to be honest with you, I didn't think this shit would last that long. I figured he was just messing around..that he'd get tired of you and kick you to the curb soon enough. And there ain't no use trying to tell you something once you got your mind made up."

The words stung, but Steph felt the truth of them; had even suspected them himself. How many times had he been sure that LeBron was just toying with him for his own amusement--that their entire fucked-up thing had been nothing but a temporary distraction for the Cavalier? 

Yet he'd allowed himself to get too attached: to the attention, the sex, the man himself. Basketball season was long and lonely, nothing but groupies or one-night hookups or your own hand for company. It had been nice to finally have someone who understood that loneliness--and the need to keep it secret from the world.

"You really fucked up last night, man." Klay's voice was solemn, matter-of-fact. "That little stunt you pulled..you could've cost us the series if the league had decided to suspend you for game seven."

A wave of guilt washed over Steph, settling in the pit of his stomach and making his mouth go dry. It was something that he'd only given a fleeting thought to, too preoccupied with his misery over his disastrous post-game encounter with LeBron. The realization only made his guilt intensify.

"I know," he said, barely more than a whisper, unable to meet the other player's eyes.

"Do you? 'Cause it seems like your mind hasn't been on basketball much at all lately." Shoulders slumping, Klay let out a heavy breath. "The other guys won't say nothing, but they're worried about you. They don't understand why you've been so fucked up lately. All I can tell them is that I'm sure you'll pull through...that you won't let us down in the end when push comes to shove. But honestly, Steph, I'm starting to wonder if it's even true."

"Goddammit, Klay." Steph rubbed at his eye with a balled up fist, horrified to feel tears rising; his throat closing up. _Why don't you twist the fucking knife in a little deeper?_

"I'm sorry," Klay said uncertainly after a beat. "That was fucked up. But dammit, Steph, I don't want to see you throw everything away." The other player sighed, running a hand over his hair. "I'm not gonna tell you how to live your life. Even if I don't get it..if this is what you want, then fine. But for now, just..don't make me into a liar, okay? We only have one more shot." 

Casting him one last look--pitydisappointmentsadness--his friend turned and headed back to his own seat, leaving Steph completely alone. 

Miserably Steph slumped further in his seat, tears fortunately retreating, feeling heavy and sluggish from stress and lack of sleep.

Klay was right. He'd let his situation with LeBron overshadow everything else: his relationships with his teammates; his dedication to his team, and the game itself--the only thing he'd ever really been passionate about. And now, partly due to his own distraction, they only had one more chance to make things right or they would lose everything they had worked so hard for all season. 

When the pilot announced take off he barely registered it, staring blankly out the nearby window, his headphones still clutched loosely in his lap.

 

\-------------

 

When they touched back down in Cali Steph was the first one off, eager to leave before anyone could hold him up. Once home he paused only long enough to strip down and crawl into bed, where he fell into a surprisingly deep sleep, his troubled mind apparently too tired to put up a fight any longer. 

He thought that he'd somehow managed to avoid Kerr's wrath following the disastrous game six, but no such luck: later that night the coach called him up and reamed him out for something close to forty minutes, going on about his responsibilities as de facto leader of the team, and how his actions affected the rest of the guys, and _if this wasn't the Finals the league would've suspended your ass last night, you realize that, right?_

It had been an uncomfortable balance of Kerr lecturing him like a disapproving teacher and Steph pacing back and forth in his room, giving sullen, one-word answers when prompted to prove he was still on the line. By the time they hung up he felt drained and rattled all over again, and he was pretty sure he would've preferred a few minutes of Kerr screaming at him in the locker room in front of the rest of the guys. _Wouldn't be the first time._

By 10 o' clock he was already back in bed, reflexively glancing at his phone every few minutes as if a text would magically appear. Ordinarily Klay would've texted him by now, either to tell him something stupid or to make fun of him (his way of apologizing), but his phone had been uncharacteristically silent since Kerr's call.

Unsurprisingly he found his thoughts drifting to LeBron, wondering what the other man was up to. _Cavs probably keeping him frozen on ice until game seven._ Despite his sour mood he couldn't help but smirk at the mental image.

Grin quickly fading, he let out a long sigh, unable to stop his mind from straying back to Klay's characteristically blunt words. 

_I thought he was just messing around...that he'd kick you to the curb sooner than later_

He saw LeBron's face, right before Steph had left his penthouse last night: devoid of any sense of familiarity or fondness, like he was looking at a total stranger. 

_Don't ever put your hands on me again._

Jaw tight, he rolled over onto his side, tossing his phone next to him on the bed and clutching a pillow tight to his bare chest. Even despite his long nap he was no match for the jet lag and heavy thoughts: within minutes he'd faded back to sleep.

 

\----------------

 

Monday night came in the blink of an eye.

For the last time of the season Kerr gathered them together in the locker room for a pre-game pep talk. Fatigue written into every line on his face, the blond man seemed to have aged five years just since the beginning of the post-season. Still, his blue eyes were sharp, his expression purposeful.

"Alright, guys," he said, crouching down in front of the bench, his clipboard in hand. "This is it. We either end the night as champions or as runners-up."

The coach slowly turned his head, scanning over each one of them. "Look. No matter what happens tonight, we've played a hell of a season. You're the best group of guys I've ever worked with. So win or lose tonight, I'm proud of all of you."

There was a chorus of "awwws" that quickly devolved into snickering chatter. Kerr grinned, shaking his blonde head. "Alright, enough sentimental shit," he said, motioning for everyone to fall silent again. "Let's talk about how we're going to beat the Cavs tonight, huh?"

Steph walked out onto the court for warm-ups as stoic as a soldier heading into battle, already chewing pensively on his mouth guard. He made it to the front of the practice line first, accepting the bounce pass from an assistant and feeling a sense of grim satisfaction as his first shot attempt landed neatly inside the basket.

As he shuffled to the back of the line Klay slid in casually behind him. "Nice shot," he said cheerily, as if it were a night like any other.

True to form his friend had texted him early Saturday, extending an olive branch in the form of an invitation to lunch. Draymond and Barnes had joined them, and it had felt good to spend a few carefree hours just hanging out with his teammates. Luckily no one had mentioned what had happened during Thursday's game, though on the way out Klay had slung an arm around his shoulders and pressed unnecessarily close, cheeks a little red from one too many margaritas.

_I'm sorry for what I said yesterday, man. You know I'll always believe in you._

Now the other player reached up to clap him on the shoulder, still grinning ear-to-ear. "Tonight's the night. How you feeling?"

For a long moment Steph hesitated, unsure of how to answer such a loaded question. 

It seemed almost unreal that everything would be over after tonight. The post-season had consumed them all mentally, emotionally and physically for months, and tonight it all ended in the most high-pressure game of his entire career.

His mind flashed back to the conversation he'd had only a little over an hour ago during a rare phone call from his dad. Ordinarily the man despised talking on the phone, but he'd called to give Steph a quick pep talk like when he was just a young, dumb kid, nervous about playing his first real game against a bunch of bigger boys. 

_No matter what happens, make sure you can always look back on tonight and say, 'I played like a champion.'_

Finally, the moment had come: their last chance to prove themselves as the rightful champions to the entire world.

To LeBron.

Unwillingly Steph found his eyes drifting slightly behind him, easily seeking out the Cavalier on the other end of the floor. He was in a conversation with Smith, his expression fierce as he nodded at something his teammate was saying. 

Tonight would be their final meeting on the court until next season--the last time he would see the other man for who knew how long. It was a day he had dreaded, at odds with the exciting possibility of becoming repeat champions. After tonight the common thread binding them together would be cut: as soon as the final buzzer sounded he would even cease being a rival, losing the only place he had in the other man's life. 

As much as the idea had disturbed him, another part of him felt curiously resigned. For now, he would focus on one thing, and one thing only: playing like a champion, just like they had last season; just like his dad said. 

"I'm ready," he heard himself say, stepping to the head of the line, easily catching the pass from a nearby assistant. This time, his shot fell just a little short. 

 

\------------------------

 

A quarter into the game and there was no clear advantage: both teams were neck-and-neck. 

There was a different kind of energy in the air tonight than usual--an excitable, breathless kind of energy emanating from the crowd, who remained almost dead silent in between each basket, anxiously anticipating the moment when they would take off on a roll.

Steph was, too, but so far it showed no signs of happening. Neither team was playing particularly well, their nervous movements guided by the knowledge that tonight, 'winner-takes-all' was an understatement. 

Halfway through the second quarter they were only up by two. Irving took an open shot and missed, the ball rebounding right to Steph, and he booked it down the court, only barely managing to side-step Shumpert who nearly tripped him, grabbing at his arm as he zipped by. With Draymond boxing out Irving underneath the basket Steph saw his chance, brushing past LeBron and making a beeline straight for the basket, but he fell into step right behind Steph, so close he could feel the other player's body heat.

He pushed himself harder, intent on outrunning the Cavalier, and went straight in for the layup--but LeBron beat him to the punch, jumping up and easily knocking the ball away before it could come anywhere near the basket, just like in game five.

The whistle blew as the ball rolled out of bounds, and Steph yanked his mouth guard out, shoulders slumping in disgust. "What, no snappy fucking line this time?" he muttered as he made to walk past the Cavalier, but LeBron stepped in front of him, making him bump right into the taller man's chest. 

"What's the matter? I mess up your highlight reel?" LeBron snapped back, darkened expression locked onto Steph's face. 

"Gentlemen, let's keep it civil," the nearby ref warned as he stepped in between them, clearly sensing a fight. Shumpert and Draymond both joined the fray, hovering nearby in support of their respective teammates. 

"Oh, you wanna talk about highlight reels after that chase down," Steph snorted, ignoring the ref, his mouth guard still clenched in hand.

"Hey, man, watch it," Shumpert warned from near his left side, but Steph didn't even look at him, his narrowed gaze fixated on LeBron.

"You the one running your mouth 'cause I'm doing what I'm supposed to. What, you want me to just stand by and watch? Yeah, okay. Sure." LeBron gave a sarcastic little nod as he turned away, dismissing the confrontation without another word. 

"Okay, okay, back to the game," Draymond said loudly with a few little claps, drifting back onto the floor, apparently already bored by the whole thing. 

Shumpert was still talking shit nearby, but Steph tuned him out, silently fuming at LeBron's subtle potshots. It was the first words they'd spoken to each other since the night of game six, and although it wasn't exactly surprising that they were less than friendly, he still couldn't help but feel irritated: he already knew their little run-in would be replay material for every news outlet during half-time. 

But he'd vowed not to let LeBron get to him; not tonight. So, pushing the encounter from his mind, he shoved his mouth guard back in, jogging over to join his teammates in finishing out the first half. 

By halftime they were only up by seven, and Steph already had a few fouls to his name. He retreated to the locker room with the rest of the guys, sweat-soaked and on-edge, his nerves buzzing with adrenaline.

"Alright, guys. We gotta come out in the second half with guns blazing," Kerr told them, face a mask of solemn determination. "Their shots aren't falling tonight. If we amp up the defense and create some more open shots we've got this."

But all too soon it was nearly halfway through the fourth quarter and their lead had fallen to four. Steph was rattled--the Cavs' offense might have been off, but they'd done a decent job of containing him, forcing him to take way too many off-balance shots. The Cleveland team had caught up and tied the game several times already, and there was still plenty of time for them to pull back on top. 

Sure enough only a few plays later LeBron shot a rare three, bringing the Cavs up to 89 over their 87--but moments later Klay quickly managed a quick layup, tying the score once again.

For the next several minutes neither team was able to score, the mood on the floor turning frantic as the minutes dwindled to two. Everyone in the building was on their feet, buzzing with restless agitation. 

When Iggy got possession they all booked it down the court, Steph catching his pass and quickly passing it back, watching with heart pumping as his teammate drove in for layup--but somehow LeBron swooped in out of nowhere, managing a perfectly-angled jump and swatting the ball away effortlessly. Denied. 

With just a minute left they were tied again, and Irving had the ball near the three-point line, clearly aiming for a shot to bring the Cavs up ahead once again. Steph stuck to him like a shadow, matching the other player's every movement, and when he went to shoot Steph jumped too, arms stretched up for the block, but Irving's shot sailed past his fingertips and sank as easily as a dagger in flesh, bringing the Cavs up to 92.

A little over ten seconds left and they were still down three, their pace becoming near panicked. LeBron drove in for a dunk, but Draymond met him on the way up, fouling the other player as they collided.

Steph watched as LeBron hit the floor and lay motionless, curled up on his side in clear agony, Jefferson crouching over him and shouting over the roar of the crowd to ask if he was okay. He tore his eyes away from the scene, chewing furiously on his mouth guard, his stomach knotted with tension as he worked to suppress a flare of concern. 

Today, they were only enemies. 

Moments later LeBron rose to his feet, expression grim, moving slowly to take his place at the free throw line. He sank the second shot, bringing the Cavs up 93 to their 89. Immediately Kerr called a time out.

"Get the ball to Steph," Kerr barked out, his calm mask long since slipped away, eyes flicking over each of their tired, sweaty faces. "If we get a three we can foul them and send them to the line. It's the only way to open up another shot--the only way we have a chance of winning this now."

Steph walked back out onto the court with jaw clenched so tightly it ached, hardly noticing Klay's brief clap on his shoulder; his strained and weary expression. He gave Steph a short nod. 

_Don't make me into a liar, okay?_

Steph took a deep breath, determination lighting up like a fire in his stomach. This was his chance to prove himself: to come through for his teammates and the fans; to defend their legacy and make NBA history once again. It all came down to him.

When the ref handed the ball to Draymond and blew the whistle to resume the game Steph sprung into action, ripping away from Shumpert and catching Draymond's rapid-fire pass right behind the three point line. Shumpert caught up to him, arms waving wildly and close enough to touch, but Steph shoved off of him, springing to the right, and with only a few seconds left he had to act: he took a step back and jumped, sending up a shot with every bit of strength he had left.

Time itself seemed to come to a stop, millions of people all over the world holding their breath as they watched the ball sail towards the basket--

\--only to see it miss its mark, smashing into the backboard and careening towards LeBron, who was waiting underneath the basket, struggling to box out Speights. 

He got a piece of it, but Speights was the one who managed to grab it, taking a quick step behind the line and sending up a desperate shot, but it was too late: the final buzzer sounded just as the ball missed, bouncing off the rim and landing forgotten near the bench as the entire room exploded into deafening chaos.

It was over. The Cavaliers had won.

 

\-----

 

Steph wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm as he jogged along the trail, kicking up dust and pebbles in his wake. 

It felt good to run--a daily practice he'd adopted since the post-season had ended. Every morning he woke up well before the sun and headed to the park a few miles from his house, setting off on a brisk jog before it got too hot. 

There was almost never anyone else out that early, and Steph preferred it that way. Since the Finals had ended he'd been spending a lot of time alone, leading to Klay accusing him of being a "hermit". His best friend had been busy competing at the summer Olympics with Barnes and Draymond, though he still made time to bug the shit out of Steph via text.

 _did you even leave the house today?_ he'd texted the previous day, and not for the first time Steph had replied with the "middle finger" emoji.

It was true he hadn't gone out much in the nearly four weeks since the Finals. Once he'd had dinner with Iggy; the following week he'd had an obligational appearance at a sports event ( _celebrity bullshit_ as Kerr always referred to it), and last weekend he'd spent the day with his parents and brother. But for the most part he'd been enjoying some rare solitude, spending most of his time working out, listening to music, and thinking.

It was partly why he liked jogging so much--it gave him plenty of time to do just that. As always, his thoughts strayed right back to that night. 

There was a time, shortly afterwards, when the pain of their lost championship had been too fresh; when just the thought of it had filled him with anger and unbearable anguish, and he'd let it fuel him, running until his legs ached and his lungs burned and the sky and the forest blurred into a single bright point before him. 

But now, several weeks later, it was slowly getting easier. Out among the dense conifers, away from all the cameras, it almost seemed like something that had happened centuries ago to someone else entirely. Pain had given way to grudging acceptance, and in moments like these he could say he felt nearly at peace, despite how things had turned out. 

Their lost championship was the hardest thing he'd ever come to terms with, especially when so many--themselves included--had been so certain of a repeat win. Steph didn't do well with failure; he'd always been a perfectionist, harder on himself than anyone else. It was something Klay had chided him about often.

"You can't just hide away, beating yourself up all summer," he'd told Steph the day before he'd left for Rio. "Yeah, we lost, it fucking sucks...but there's always next season."

Steph hadn't bothered to point out that that was the difference between them. When faced with failure and disappointment, Klay liked to jump right back in without pause, like he'd decided to do with Team USA. But Steph found himself needing to reflect and acknowledge where he'd went wrong before trying again.

It was impossible to pinpoint a single reason for their loss when there had been so many different factors. Iguodola and Bogut getting hurt; Draymond's suspension; his own hurt knee that hadn't had a chance to heal 100% before the Finals...and, reluctantly, he was able to admit that their cockiness definitely hadn't helped. Looking back, there were a thousand little instances: his surety of their win, before the Finals had even started; Klay's press conference trash-talking; his ill-advised behind-the-back pass during game seven (he still cringed whenever he thought of that one). 

LeBron was right: they'd been totally lacking in humility.

Steph came to a sudden stop at the end of the trail, leaning heavily over his knees, his chest heaving with exertion. _LeBron_...the one sore spot he hadn't been able to soothe, at least not yet. Straightening shakily, he began making his way across the parking lot towards his car, his jumbled mind at odds with the adrenaline singing through his blood.

After the final buzzer, when he'd felt like his heart had been ripped out and shredded to confetti, he'd watched with no small degree of envy and longing as LeBron, overcome with emotion, had collapsed to the floor; as his teammates and the media swarmed him on all sides, offering the sincerest of praises for his hard-fought victory. Mixed up in the throng of madness that crowded the floor, Steph had stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, unable to look away.

In the moment of his team's greatest loss, he was disturbed to realize that what he felt most envious of wasn't LeBron's victory, but instead the fact that the other man's teammates, the cameras, his millions of adoring fans--all of them were closer to LeBron in that moment than he could ever hope to be. 

It was this sobering realization that had shattered his trance. Steph had torn his eyes from the scene and headed back to the locker room, his stomach like a lead balloon, itching to get away from the all-seeing eyes of the cameras and his teammates' haunted faces. 

As predicted, the Cavalier had jetted off with his teammates straight after winning the trophy, and as far as Steph could tell through brief glimpses online (before he quickly scrolled away), he'd been partying it up ever since. Not surprisingly he hadn't received a single text from the other player. 

_Probably too busy banging a bunch of random chicks_ , he thought flatly, sliding into his car and reaching for the water bottle he'd left on the passenger's seat. 

Once, he'd nearly texted LeBron himself. _when you get back from vacation, maybe we could meet up..work out or something?_

But he'd deleted it instantly, face burning scarlet at how awkward he sounded. Their last encounter hadn't exactly been friendly; their last encounter on the court, likewise. It was dumb to pretend that he was anything other than a half-forgotten rival; or since the Cavs' epic victory, maybe not even that.

Jaw tight, Steph pulled out of the parking lot and set off for home, sweat already cooling thanks to the early morning air that streamed in through his windows. The sun was just beginning to come up.

 

\-----

 

Mid-afternoon found him lying on the couch in his living room, freshly showered, staring vacantly up at the high ceiling. 

After his jog he'd returned home and fallen back into bed for a few more hours of sleep, for once feeling more worn out than energized by the exercise. When he woke back up he'd made himself a protein smoothie before heading to his in-home gym for an hour-long weightlifting session. Then he'd had a quick shower before dropping down onto the couch, where he'd lain ever since. 

Unlike the appreciation he'd felt that morning for his self-imposed solitude, he now found himself feeling inexplicably lonely. Lifting his phone up, he glanced at it with a slight frown. Right then he would have even welcomed one of Klay's nosy texts.

A heavy knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He sat up slowly, brow furrowed in confusion. He definitely wasn't expecting anyone. The rest of the guys were all busy, he hadn't talked to any of his non-basketball friends lately, and although his mom had no problem with showing up at his door unannounced, she was currently on vacation with his dad in the Bahamas. Maybe it was his little brother, coming to irritate him in Klay's place while his friend was busy in another country?

Snorting to himself at the thought, Steph reluctantly rose from the couch, tugging his t-shirt back in place. When it came to wanting some company, his brother wasn't exactly who he had in mind. In typical "annoying little brother" fashion, Seth seemed to get a kick out of rubbing it in that he'd lost the championship. Steph definitely wasn't in the mood for his teasing right then. 

Already annoyed by the thought, he pulled the chain loose from the door and switched the lock, yanking it wide open, allowing the warm California sun to stream in. "I told you to text before you--"

He stopped short, gaping slightly.

LeBron James grinned around the unlit cigar perched in the corner of his mouth, his eyes hidden behind dark shades. "My bad."

Dumbfounded, Steph took in the picture before him: it was really LeBron, leaning coolly against his door frame, dressed casually in a pair of shorts and a (what else?) Cavs t-shirt, a cap twisted backwards on his head. He had a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and cradled in the other muscular arm, glinting brightly in the mid-day sun, was none other than the fucking Larry O'Brien trophy.

The other player arched a brow from behind the sunglasses. "You gonna invite me in?"

Wordlessly, still too stunned to speak, Steph stood aside and opened the door wider, allowing the Cavalier to breeze past him. When he re-shut the door and turned LeBron was watching him with barely concealed amusement, larger-than-life and somehow completely real, and THAT was something Steph had never expected to see in his front hall.

"What are you doing here? Wait..how the fuck did you get into the neighborhood?" It was a guarded, gated community, after all.

LeBron made a little noise of dismissal. "There ain't too many places you can't get into when you're LeBron James." He flashed Steph a winning smile. "I just got back from vacation and was in town. Thought I'd crash here for a while." Pointedly he dropped the gym bag to the floor, pushing it up against the wall with his shoe. 

There was no way LeBron didn't have at least one property in California..not to mention the fact that he could easily afford to stay anywhere he wanted. Which meant--

Cheeks burning, Steph shifted uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-aware of his worn old shorts and hole-y college t-shirt that he kept forgetting to throw out. "Um..yeah, sure. No problem." He made a face at the trophy still held carefully in the other man's arm. "Did you really have to bring that?"

LeBron gave him a funny look. "Of course. This lil' baby ain't left my sight since we won." He lifted it up slightly, pressing a kiss to the shiny brass, and Steph was annoyed to feel his stomach jump. 

"Besides," LeBron grinned, "I thought I'd let you get a good look at it, since this is the closest you gonna get to it this year." He held it up proudly, like a father showing off his newborn. 

Steph rolled his eyes. Maybe Seth wouldn't have been so bad after all. "How thoughtful of you." 

"I'm a thoughtful guy." 

A silence fell between them. Steph picked at the hem of his t-shirt, feeling awkward under the other man's gaze. "So, um..you wanna drink, or--?"

"Actually, I'm feeling like I got some pent-up energy from that long plane ride." LeBron shot him a challenging look. "How 'bout some one-on-one?"

"Now?" Steph looked at him incredulously.

LeBron smirked a little. "Why not? Unless you're afraid you gonna lose again."

Steph, predictably, felt a stab of irritation, his expression twisting into a scowl. How did the other man always manage to get under his skin in just a few minutes? "Fuck no. You're on. Just lemme get some shoes on."

 

\----

 

Ten minutes later found them on Steph's in-home court( _"It's too hot to go outside," he'd explained as he'd led the way_ ), ball tucked neatly under his arm. It was the ball they'd won the 2015 Finals with, and although Steph wasn't usually superstitious he had a feeling he was about to need some luck.

"Alright," he said once he'd flipped on the lights, dribbling the ball twice as he turned around--just in time to see LeBron yank off his t-shirt and toss it aside. 

He couldn't help the way his eyes roamed over the dark, muscled skin, down to the shorts that hung low on the narrow hips. Apparently LeBron hadn't allowed himself any down time that summer, vacation or not: he somehow looked even more massive than he had at the end of the season. Or maybe it was just because it'd been so long since they'd-- 

Steph forced his eyes back up to the other man's face, throat suddenly feeling a little dry. "Rules?"

"First one to make five baskets wins." LeBron followed him to the center of the court, turning his back to the left-hand basket. "Since it's your house, I'll even let you have first possession."

"Gee, thanks." Steph fell into step across from him, giving the ball a few dribbles. Although he practiced daily, he hadn't played against anyone since the Finals, except for a quick match against Seth last weekend (Steph had won, of course). "If I win?"

LeBron smiled. "If you win, I'll let you hold the trophy. For a second."

"Ha-ha." Steph tossed the ball from hand to hand, sizing the other man up. "And if you win?"

The look LeBron gave him sent a shiver down his spine. "If I win, I'm gonna make Chokeland live up to its name again."

Steph held the dark gaze, blood already pounding in his ears. He cleared his throat around a sudden lump. "Deal."

LeBron straightened fully, glancing down at him from his superior height. "Whenever you ready."

Steph bit his lip, slowly dribbling; then he lunged forward around the other man, making a bee-line for the basket.

The Cavalier knocked the ball free from his grip, but Steph managed to get it back, darting around him and tossing up a layup. It hit the rim and bounced back, and LeBron easily caught it, smirking at Steph as he came down.

"You gonna have to do better than that."

Several minutes later, it was 2-3: LeBron had gotten two layups past him, while Steph had managed a layup and two rapid-fire threes. 

"Looks like the Baby-Faced Killer still got it," he said after Steph's second three fell neatly through the hoop. He sounded...approving, and it made Steph's heart swell.

He made a three of his own, tying them up and sending the ball back to Steph. Steph dribbled idly for a minute, trying to catch his breath. He was already tired: for such a big dude, LeBron was ridiculously fast, and without his teammates to help him he was finding it more than challenging to keep up with the other player.

"Giving up?" LeBron asked smugly.

Not that he would tell LeBron that. "Hell no." Dripping with sweat, Steph arched his shoulders and yanked his own t-shirt up, switching the ball to the other hand so he could ease it off and throw it to the side. He felt a thrill run through him at the way the other man's eyes swept over his bare skin. "Just..strategizing."

"Take your time."

Gritting his teeth, Steph made as if to shift right--only to dart left instead. But the other man moved quickly into his path, not falling for the fake. It was like slamming into cement: Steph found himself laid flat on the floor with the wind knocked out of him, the ball flying loose from his grip. LeBron collected it easily, jogging lazily down to the basket for a one-handed layup.

"Not fair," Steph complained as he got back to his feet, rubbing idly at a jarred elbow. "That was totally a foul."

"I don't see any refs here, do you?" LeBron flung the ball at him with more force than necessary, and Steph just barely caught it, letting out a small 'oof'. The Cavalier grinned. "You about to blow another lead."

"Not a chance." Steph jumped to the side once again, and quickly took aim. The other player made to block him, but the shot sailed just past his reach, swirling around the rim twice before dropping inside. 

Steph couldn't suppress a cocky grin. "I don't need the refs to help me win..unlike your team."

"You still ain't learned, huh?" LeBron collected the ball, giving it a few dribbles. "How many times I gotta say it? It ain't over til it's over."

Without warning he took off sprinting down the court. Heart in his throat, Steph charged after him, his blood pumping excitedly in a way it hadn't in weeks.

LeBron reached the hoop first, but it didn't matter: his backwards layup was too hard, flying right over top of the basket. 

Steph caught it easily, grinning like a maniac, hardly believing his luck. "It's about to be!" He started back towards the other side of the court as fast as he could, sights set on the basket, gleeful at the prospect of victory--

Like fucking Batman LeBron swooped in behind him, knocking his shot away in a perfect re-enactment of his epic block in game seven. By the time Steph managed to pivot back around LeBron had already made it back to the other end of the court, and he could only watch as the Cavalier made his fifth and final basket with a rim-rattling dunk.

"Why you look so upset?" Ball clenched in one giant hand, LeBron came back towards him, face split into a grin. "It's a man's game."

Steph huffed out a breath, reflexively catching the chest pass LeBron shot him. "Funny," he muttered, wiping away the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He had a feeling LeBron wasn't ever going to let him forget Klay's infamous press conference trash-talking.

Hugging the ball to his heaving chest, Steph flicked his eyes away to focus on the tiled floor. "Look, um..I never said it, but...congratulations. I know we both talked a lot of shit...but in all seriousness...you guys got a pretty good thing going. And finally winning for your city, after that long..." Steph shifted uncomfortably on his feet, still avoiding the other man's gaze. "...it's, you know, pretty cool, I guess. So, um, yeah. Congrats."

He fell silent, his cheeks scarlett. Many times since game seven he'd lain awake at night, wrestling with the idea of sending a congratulatory text, but had always deleted it before he could change his mind, convinced it wouldn't be appreciated. But still, he felt the need to say it--even if the other player made fun of him for it.

"Sounds like you finally learned some humility." There was a note of teasing in LeBron's voice, but his eyes were soft. "I mean what I say at all the press junkets. Even with how things turned out...you guys are a good team. No one can deny that."

"Not good enough, obviously." Steph couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone, thumb tracing idle circles over the worn surface of the ball. "I know you think it was just me being stuck up my own ass when I acted so sure we were going to win...and yeah, maybe that was part of it. But honestly..more than anything..I was determined to prove you wrong."

The admission felt even more personal than his belated congratulations. Abruptly he broke their shared gaze, holding the ball in front of him like a shield. "It sounds fucking dumb, I know. But I wanted to show you that I--we could do it again. That last year wasn't just, just..some crazy, beginner's luck kind of shit. Then you'd have no choice but to admit you were wrong when you said we couldn't do it. Because..if LeBron James thinks you're something, then, well. You must really be something."

His feelings of weakness and self-doubt, the overpowering desire for the other man's respect--it was finally all laid bare, the words left with nowhere to hide between them. All at once he felt more exposed than when he'd been forced to make the long walk off the court after being thrown out of game six.

"Pretty pathetic, huh?" He cracked a self-deprecating smile to cover up his unease. "It doesn't matter anymore, anyways. We fucked it up."

"Steph."

Shocked, his eyes instinctively jumped back up to the other man's face. It was, he realized, the first time LeBron had called him by his first name.

Surprisingly, there were no traces of mocking or judgment on LeBron's face--only something thoughtful. "When you guys were up 3-1, I thought it was gonna end up just like last year for us. The rest of the guys--they didn't say it, but they were ready for that too. I wasn't happy about it, but there ain't any shame in losing to a good team when you've played your best. So I could've accepted it, even as much as it would've disappointed everyone.

"But then your boy Klay went running his mouth, and suddenly I had another reason to fight even harder. I knew we couldn't let things end like last year. And we didn't." He gave a genuine smile, clearly recalling that moment of victory once more.

"Point is...you should know there ain't any shame in wanting to prove someone wrong. With all the shit I said to you, I gave you plenty of motivation." He cracked a grin. "I gotta admit, though--it's flattering that the two-time 'Unanimous MVP' cares so much what I think about him."

"So what do you?" Steph forced himself to hold the other man's gaze, his heart thud-thudding so hard he was sure the other player could see it through his rib cage.

LeBron looked back steadily. "I think, even with the way things turned out, this ain't gonna define your career, or you as a player. This ain't the end of what Stephen Curry can do." He quirked a brow. "And I expect more of a challenge from you next season than that little match we just had. That shit was weak."

Steph couldn't help but laugh, his heart suddenly so light it felt like he was soaring. Even despite everything--some of his not-so-stellar post-season performances, the shit-show that was game six, their ultimate loss--LeBron didn't think he was a total fuck-up. It was ridiculous how just a few words of praise from the other player was enough to make him practically fucking glow.

And LeBron had come to him. The realization hit him suddenly, made him suck in a breath. Even without the common thread of regular-season games to tie them together he'd gone out of his way to seek Steph out. It wasn't anything like a fucking love declaration, no, but from a guy as generally as unemotional as LeBron it was something far more than hatred, more than rivalry and competitiveness or a convenient fuck. In the rapidly dwindling weeks of their summer break--when anyone would be vying for a spot at the newly-crowned Champion's side--LeBron had chosen him.

Whatever reply he might have conjured up dissolved into nothingness as Steph finally threw caution to the wind, surging forward, the ball dropping forgotten from his grip to skitter across the polished floor. It was pure sense memory as their mouths combined: the damp, scratchiness of the other man's beard against his face, the sweat-slick of his chest, the overwhelming heat of him. And this time LeBron kissed him back just as hard, winding an arm around his waist and crushing him close. 

Somehow they drifted backwards, until the cold steel of the base of the hoop pressed firm against his back. Steph broke their kiss, spitting into his palm before shoving it past the waistband of the other man's shorts to wrap around his dick. LeBron let out a grunt, pressing in even closer as Steph stroked him to full hardness.

"Take off your shorts," LeBron said shortly against the underside of his jaw, teeth grazing over the sensitive skin, and Steph shuddered as he moved to obey, tugging them down with one hand and kicking them off to the side. Immediately LeBron lifted him up by his hips, pinning him to the base of the hoop as if he weighed nothing at all, and instinctively Steph wound his legs around the trim waist, arms snaking around the broad shoulders, his abs tight with arousal and adrenaline and urgency.

A true multi-tasker, LeBron fed him two fingers of one hand while he tugged his shorts down just far enough for his dick to spring free, crushing impossibly close to keep Steph pinned in place. He sucked sloppily, groaning around the fingers as he felt LeBron's hard dick nudging against his ass, already impatient to feel the other man inside him. Mercifully LeBron seemed to feel the same urgency: moments later the fingers were gone from his mouth, both of them inserted unceremoniously into his ass. 

Steph moaned at the sudden pressure, hard dick twitching where it was trapped between them, hands inching down the broad back to dig his nails in deep.

"Yeah?" LeBron murmured low against his sweaty neck, confident and sure, his fingers twisting and teasing, and ridiculously enough just that was enough to make a fresh wave of heat flare within him. 

"Yeah," he agreed in a near-sob, and somehow that one word seemed to encapsulate all the words he couldn't bring himself to say, for fear it'd break the illusion that he was anything other than a weakened neutron star trapped in the other player's gravitational pull, destined for destruction. 

But LeBron took it for what it was, right then: a desperate pleading for more. Steph let out a shuddery breath as LeBron began pressing into him, hot and relentless and always _too big_ , his body gone rigid with the familiar near-panic that the Cavalier might actually, finally break him.

"Let me in," LeBron murmured, deceptively gentle--a blood-sucking demon requesting entrance at the window of his fucking heart. Instantly his mind flashed back to all his time spent anguishing between their encounters, his desperate attempts to suppress his feelings and make it mean nothing at all, and when that hadn't worked his brutal desperation to triumph over the other man and win the trophy again, because fuck if he wasn't going to make himself mean something to LeBron even if it was just his most hated fucking enemy.

But he was sick of fighting the hold the other man had over him, sick of seeing it as just another weakness, because trophy or not LeBron had shown up on his doorstep, and that meant he was just a little weak to it too.

So Steph forced himself to let go, surrendering himself completely to the other man's hold, and they both groaned as LeBron slid all the way home in one smooth thrust.

They were both already too far gone to drag it out: LeBron gave it to him hard and fast, fingers digging into the tender skin of his ass to hold him wide, his kisses on the edge of painful. Steph dug the heels of his sneakers into the sides of the other player's waist, pulling the other player in as deep as he could take him, one hand suctioned to the broad back while the other roamed freely across the muscled chest, over the shorn head, down to the glorious beard. He buried his face against the thick hair, the tell-tale pressure building in his stomach as LeBron rutted into him, the entire hoop shaking in protest.

"I'm close," he said breathlessly, reaching down to jerk his own dick in haphazard rhythm and clinging to LeBron's shoulder like a life raft, and the words only spurred the other player on, his hands tightening bruisingly on Steph's hips as he pounded up into him with single-minded focus. Steph let out a helpless sound, the force of it knocking any and all other words from his throat, instead catching the other man's lips in another kiss that was hard and messy and edged with the desperation of impending orgasm. 

It hit him fast, their kiss shattering as he threw his head back against the base and groaned out his release, spilling all over his own hand. LeBron grunted, teeth like needle-pricks against his neck, and moments later he was shoving into Steph a final time, following him swiftly over the edge.

For long minutes they stayed that way, no sound but the harsh staccato of their breaths, and the feeling of LeBron's racing heart against his chest, perfectly in rhythm with his own.


End file.
